


The Price Of Retrouvailles

by akajustmerry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/M, Multi, POV Irene, POV Irene Adler, POV John Watson, POV Mary Morstan, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 76,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akajustmerry/pseuds/akajustmerry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Retrouvailles: [French. meaning: rediscovery]] The feeling of reuniting with someone after a long separation.</p><p>Months after Moriarty's broadcast, Sherlock Holmes is no closer to finding his arch nemesis. Frustrated and desperate, fear drives him into mistakenly revealing that he did indeed save Irene Adler's life and that, despite this, he has not seen or heard of her in 3 years. As if in answer to his prayers and paranoia, Irene Adler returns to Baker Street with intimate information on Moriarty's most faithful lieutenant. The assassin known as Sebastian Moran is back in London and this time, Sherlock's friends will not let him face the danger alone. Can Sherlock trust the Woman whose life he saved and heart he stole? How much can Sherlock really protect those he cares about most when it seems everything he's done to protect them has been for nothing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Best Friend And The Woman

 

_Irene Adler. She's now under a witness protection scheme so we'll not be seeing her again. And Sherlock seems fine with that. Of course, he isn't fine with it, not really. But he'll get there._

_A Scandal Belgravia_ was by no means the most thrilling case John had ever reported on his blog. But, Mary Watson was intrigued by it for two reasons. Firstly, her husband’s possible association with the death of a woman whom the majority of the intelligence community had believed to be untouchable and, secondly, his best friends’ more than obvious infatuation with her.

“John?”

John looked up at her from the newspaper he was reading. Their daughter, Ella, was curled up asleep on his chest.

“Yes, love?” He answered. Mary adjusted herself on the sofa so she was leaning forward.

“You and Sherlock knew Irene Adler? You actually met her?” she asked. John gave a hollow laugh before returning to his paper,

“’Knew’ is a bit of a strong word, in my case, at least. But we definitely met her.” He glared at her, narrowing his eyes over the top of the paper, “Didn’t you promise you weren’t gonna read my blog? Why the interest in her, anyway?”

Mary shrugged, “When I was doing some freelance work, I had to tail her for some wealthy novelist who thought his wife was having an affair with her. He wanted me to kill her when it turned out he was right. But then I found out he was screwing her too and decided it wasn’t worth my time.”

“You can say that, again,” John turned the page of the newspaper, “If you ask me, Irene Adler was a lot more trouble than she was worth.”

“What if I asked, Sherlock?” Mary watched John frown and saw that his eyes were no longer moving as he read the words on the page, “Come on, John, tell me what happened?” she pouted her bottom lip at her husband. John looked at her for a moment, chuckled and sighed. Closing the paper and taking off his glasses, he adjusted Ella cautiously in his arms so he could lean slightly forward.

“Well,” he said, carefully, “Do _not_ tell Sherlock I told you. I mean it, don’t mention her to him but, in short,” John puffed air out of his cheeks, “he fell for her.”

“You’re kidding-?”

“At least, I think he did- It was strange, I’d never- I mean, you know him, Mary, he’s like a well-oiled machine. Not a lot can throw a spanner in those works-"

“I can think of one thing.” Mary joked, staring pointedly at her husband. John laughed,

“No.” John said, “Not like this. She really got to him,” he paused “From the get go. I mean, the plan was a synch, really. Sherlock, disguised as a priest, would pretend to be injured. She’d let us in. Then, while she was distracted with him, I’d set off the fire alarm, he’d use that to steal the phone and that should’ve been the knighthood in the bag.”

Mary frowned at him,

“Oh,” John noticed her confusion, “We were sent in there to get her camera phone by the government. Apparently, Miss Adler had taken some photos of herself and some female royal of a,” John bunged on a posh accent, “‘compromising nature’ and she wasn’t giving them up – Wasn’t doing anything with them, really. She just seemed to get off on the influence.”

Mary, despite herself, felt a twinge of admiration for the Woman.

“So, what happened?” she asked. John suddenly looked like he was about to laugh,

“She was ready for us – Well, ready for him.” Mary tapped her fingers on her knee impatiently as she waited for John to continue, “I went to get a first aid kit and, when I got back to where Sherlock was in her living room. I saw him just,” he paused, his eyes glazed over for a minute, “sitting there and Irene Adler was standing over him, the dog collar of his priest disguise between her teeth and she was absolutely and completely naked.”

Mary felt her jaw drop,

“What-? She was-? And he was just-?”

John nodded, a cheeky smile twitching the corner of his lips as he kept talking, “Ever seen Sherlock stutter?”

Mary scoffed at him, “Have you met him?”

“Irene Adler indirectly called him sexy and I swear to god the only way I can describe the noise that came out of his mouth was a kind of verbal keyboard smash.”

Mary clapped her hand over her mouth, not wanting her sudden outburst of giggles to disturb their slumbering baby daughter resting on John’s chest, “All this while she was naked?” she asked.

“No. Sherlock lent her his coat.”

Mary gave a mock gasp, though, she was a little surprised, “Sherlock Holmes lent another human being one of his precious coats? This truly is a scandal!” she exclaimed. John burst out in a roar of laughter that he stifled almost instantly when Ella began to stir. Speaking softly, he responded,

“Like I said, I’d never seen him like this with anyone, Mary. He’d known her for five minutes and he,” John scrunched up his nose, “flirted? I think that’s the word…”

“Oh my god what was that like?” she asked. John rolled his eyes at her,

“Like standing between two big bloody egotistical black holes that were each trying to swallow the other up,”

Mary sniggered, crinkling her nose, “Sounds intense.” she said. John shook his head at her,

“You have no idea, it was ridiculous. Anyway, next thing these Americans come in waving their guns around threatening to kill me unless Sherlock opens the safe he found behind the mirror in her living room. It had a six digit code and, as far as I could tell, he didn’t know it at first.” John paused to adjust Ella in his arms so that he was cradling her before he continued,

“But then, it was odd he sort of,” John pursed his lips, his brow furrowed, “looked at her and he did know it. I found out later that the code was her measurements-”

“Stop. Her measurements? He knew her measurements from looking at her naked _once_?”

John nodded, grinning ever so slightly.

“Well, I suppose he’s always had an eye for detail.” Mary mused, chuckling.

“So, turns out it’s a booby trap, right? The safe had a loaded gun that triggered when you opened the door. Sherlock used it to take out one of the guys. Miss Adler and I dealt with the other two pretty quickly. I had to admit I was impressed with her skill though, not nearly as impressed as Sherlock.”

“Oh?”

“I caught him, just for a second, looking at her before she took out this American thug.” John mused.

“And?” Mary poked. John exhaled.

“He was a goner, Mary. She had him. Even if he didn’t know it or didn’t want to know it. He looked at her like he knew he was never going to stop looking at her. Like her existence in that moment was more fascinating to him than any case he would ever take.”

Mary smirked at him, “I do love it when you get all poetic, darling.” she teased. John grinned at his wife,

“Thank you, Mrs Watson.” Ella made a noise in John’s arms. Both of them watched her for a few minutes but she still seemed to be fast asleep.

“What happened, then?” Mary whispered.

“I don’t really know.” John’s voice was strained for a moment as he remembered, “I went to check the back door and when I came back Irene Adler had her camera-phone, Sherlock was on the floor convulsing and she jumped out the window, still wearing nothing but his coat.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, he was a bit of a mess after that. I never told him, but the whole time he was under the influence of whatever narcotic she gave him, he just kept saying her name.”

“Really?” said Mary, eyes wide.

“Really.” John echoed.

“Geeze, talk about first impressions.” sighed Mary.  John guffawed at her comment before continuing,

“Not a lot happened after that. Not for a while, at least. Although there was-” John started sniggering, “I dunno, he might still have it, actually.” John mused.

“What?” Mary asked, “What is it?” It was a few moments before John could rein in his giggling enough to answer,

“Alright, so Sherlock’s phone would’ve been in his coat when he gave it to her.”

“Probably.” Mary agreed, raising her eyebrow.

“And you know how you can personalize certain people’s ringtones in your phone?”

“Yes?” Mary said, slowly.

“Well,” John sniggered, “she took the ‘personal’ part of personalize to a whole new level.”

Mary shook her head at him, frowning, “John, what-?”

“Mary, she was a dominatrix, right? Think about it, what’s the most embarrassing thing you could ever put as someone’s text alert? _Sherlock’s_ text alert.” John’s cheeky grin crinkled the corners of his eyes as he watched her think. After a moment, maybe two, a truly ridiculous notion flickered across Mary’s mind,

“No.” she whispered incredulously, “It wasn’t her orgas-” John nodded,

“The funniest thing was that he never changed it! He could have but he didn’t. Irene Adler text him quite a lot and it went off at the Christmas party! Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson were all there-!” John gasped, “The way he blushed every time, it was just-!” This time, John was unable to control his sniggers. Mary tossed back her head, giggling, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. But, it was too late. Her's and John’s combined hysterics had woken baby Ella. The squeaks of her sobs mixing in with their fading laughter.

“Here give, her to me.” Mary crossed the room to John’s chair. He stood up, carefully lifting Ella and placing her into Mary’s arms. Both of them cooing and shushing her in an attempt to calm her down. Mary bounced her gently on the spot.

“Shhhhhh darling, it’s okay.” Mary chanted, smiling down at the sobbing Ella in her arms. Out of the corner of her eye she saw John smile, almost dazedly as he watched them, before he leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. Mary chuckled at him, continuing to soothe Ella, who was beginning to fall back to sleep in her arms.

“Then, what?” she whispered as John sat back down in his chair. He scratched his head,

“Well,” John propped his face on his hand, leaning on his elbow, “she died.” But there was something about the way he said ‘died’ that made Mary cock her head sideways.

“How was he?”

“Oh,” John groaned, “Unbearable, as usual.” John’s chuckle was hollow, “He seemed broken, Mary. Almost empty. When I met Sherlock he told me he was married to his work. I mean, you’ve seen it! He throws himself, head, heart and soul into every case. He pretends to be detached but he isn’t. But when she died,” John looked away from Mary for a minute, “he _was_ detached. From everything. He hardly took another case. She left him the camera-phone, he hardly spoke, bar from muttering about that phone and the bloody passcode that he couldn’t figure out. Hardly did anything other than play his violin and obsess over it for ages, it was…” John trailed off. Mary felt her stomach twinge,

 _“Poor Sherlock.”_ She thought aloud.

“Yep” John agreed, “Though, it was even worse when he found out she was actually alive.”

“She was _what?”_

“Mmmm hmmm” John nodded, “she set up a meeting with me. I thought it was Mycroft, but then-” he paused, shaking his head.

Mary frowned, “What did she say?” she asked. John chuckled benignly, 

“She wanted to get the phone back,” he scratched his head, “and to talk about Sherlock. I, more or less, told her everything I just told you. Practically begged her to tell him that she was alive.” John sighed, “But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to because he’d followed me there.”

Mary sat down, still cradling Ella in her arms and shaking her head at John, “I would’ve been absolutely livid, if I was him.” She said.

“Oh, he was terrifying. When I got back home as it turned out, the aforementioned American thugs had come to our flat to look for the phone. Taking Mrs Hudson hostage in the process, by the looks. But by the time I got there Sherlock had one of them beaten and tied to a chair.” At his words Mary’s jaw dropped,

“What did he do?”

John actually laughed, “He threw him out the window.”

“Gosh, he was pissed off, wasn’t he?”

John nodded,  “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “But underneath all that anger, I could tell he was pleased she wasn’t dead. I wondered afterwards whether or not part of his anger was toward himself for being happy she was alive…” John broke off, “But like I said, he never talked about her, always found a way to avoid it so-” John shrugged. Mary waited for him to continue,

“Then, one day, we come home and found her asleep in Sherlock’s bed.” John was grinning cheekily at the memory. Mary raised her eyebrows,

“I bet Sherlock was pleased.” she said.

“Oh, he was over the moon, Mary. Bounced around her like a puppy. I hadn’t seen him that lively in months. It was a bit annoying, really. Considering everything she put him through.” He grumbled, “There were moments there where he was so engrossed in her presence, you could’ve sworn I was a bloody pile of bricks! It was funny, though, the way she handled him, almost scary. Never seen anyone do that. It was like they were each trying out do the other-” 

“In what exactly?” frowned Mary. John puffed air from his cheeks,

“Everything, anything? Each other? Like I said, they like were two egotistical black holes that seemed to be having a contest over who could be the worst at pretending they were the least interested in the other. The tension was ridiculous. I left ‘em alone and went out for a bit.”

Mary’s eyes widened, “Wait, do you think they-?” Mary stared at him pointedly for a minute.

John frowned,“What-? You mean-? Nah!”

Mary scowled at him, “After everything you’ve just said you really don’t think they would have? Come on, John!”

“Even if he wanted to, Mary, I know he wouldn’t. Sherlock doesn’t let himself feel that kinda stuff. He can’t. He thinks it gets in the way of his brain work.” John rolled his eyes, “Though, he probably had the best chance of doing it with her.” He muttered.

“Must be awful,” Mary wondered aloud, “To constantly feel you have to suppress your emotions like that.”

“It’s not easy for him, no.” John said, “But he tries his best to make it look like that.” They sat in silence for a few moments.

“How long did she stay with him, anyway?” Mary asked.

“Not long, actually. I got a call from Mrs Hudson around 5 hours later that Sherlock had been taken away by some government suits. I asked if anyone was with him when he left but she said there was no one. But when I got back to Baker Street, they were both gone.”

Mary blinked at him, “I don’t really know much after that.” John continued, rubbing the back of his neck, “Sherlock came home early hours of the morning. He looked awful. Destroyed, even. I asked him where Irene Adler was and he just said, 'she wasn’t a concern and that Mycroft had her in custody.' I knew that meant they’d cracked the phone. Sherlock told me in the end it was just some random numbers. I had a feeling he was lying, though, I didn’t know why he would. He went back into heartbreak mode for a bit. Sometimes disappearing for days at a time. Then, one day, Mycroft came round and told me she’d been kidnapped and beheaded by some terrorist group in Karachi. We agreed to tell Sherlock she’d gotten into a witness protection scheme in the US.”

Mary raised an eyebrow at him, “And he believed that?”

“Yeah. Or he wanted to. Either way he didn’t question it. He was calmer about it than I expected, come to think of it.”

Mary was frowning at him, but he seemed to be lost in thought, “You know, I don’t know what you could say about Sherlock’s heart.” He seemed to be answering a question Mary hadn’t asked, “But he kept that phone. Sherlock, to this day, has never kept anything from any of his cases but he specifically asked for Irene Adler’s camera-phone.” John folded his arms, “He probably loved her, in his own way. I think she loved him, judging from the way she spoke about him. But I don’t know-” he rubbed his eyes, “Doesn’t matter though now, does it? I mean, she’s dead.” John seemed finished.

Mary got up and walked over to the cot they’d put for Ella in the middle of the living room and lowered her into it before turning to face her husband, folding her arms,

“And you believe that?” she asked.

“Believe what?”

“That she’s dead.”

“Well, yeah-” John frowned.

Mary chuckled at him, “Have you noticed something about your best friend, love? People don’t really tend to actually die around him. Including him.”

“That’s not funny.” John said, thinking about Moriarty’s telecast.

“Of course it isn't.” Mary said, seriously, but she was smiling, “But Sherlock knows when we’ve changed our laundry detergent and you’re telling me he couldn’t tell you were lying about Irene Adler?”

“He didn’t-”

“A man who faked his own death to keep you safe falls for a woman who also faked her own death in the time you knew her.” Mary said matter of factly. There was a long pause while John thought this over,

“What-? You reckon he saved her, somehow?” John said, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“You said it yourself! He was away for days at a time! And, he was oddly calm when you told him he couldn’t see her again.”

John stood up, “Mary, he can hardly say her name and you’re telling me he flew a thousand miles, infiltrated a dangerous bloody terrorist cell alone and rescued her, all without me noticing?”

Mary scoffed at him again, “It’s Sherlock, John. He murdered Magnussen for you- for me- do you really think he isn’t capable of everything you just said? You’re his best friend. You know him better than anyone. You saw him with her. Can you honestly stand here and tell me that what you just said isn’t possible?”

John stared at her for a long moment. Disbelief etched into the crinkles of his frown, “No.”

Mary grinned.

“I mean, no it isn’t possible!” He shouted.

Mary threw her hands up in defeat, “Okay, fine!”

“He wouldn’t say even if he had, love.”

Mary’s eyes widened. John took a step back,

“No-no! I am not asking him about her. He’s on edge enough as it is and he won’t say anything anyway.”

Mary was grinning, “10 quid.”

“What?” John frowned,

“10 quid she’s alive and that he saved her. If he says nothing I’ll give you 20 quid.”

John folded his arms, “You seem very confident he’ll talk, Mrs Watson.” He teased. 

Mary shrugged, “Like you said. He’s on edge. He might want to talk to someone about her. Besides, if he tells anyone, it’ll just be you.”

John was shaking his head. But she stared her husband down until, “Fine!” John unfolded his arms and pointed at her, “But on the impossiblility, he talks and you turn out to be right, I’ll give you 50 quid!” he booped her nose.

“Excellent! I need a new pair of jeans.” Mary laughed as John was pulling on his coat.

“And, if he punches me in the face, I want loads of pity and you have to take care of Ella when she wakes up crying at 3am for the next week.”

Mary smirked at him, “Alright, fine." she said, "But we both know you’ll get her anyway, you worry wart.”

“Hey, I prefer vigilant.”

“Of course, darling.”

John leaned down, placing the tips of his fingers under her chin to tilt her head up for a swift kiss. Before pulling away from her and heading towards the front door.

“Good luck! Have fun!” Mary chorused after him. John smiled and rolled his eyes. Giving Mary a wave as he got into the car. But as he headed towards Baker Street, John Watson couldn’t get rid of the nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach. Knowing that loosing 50 quid was certainly not what he would be worried about, if Mary turned out to be right about his best friend and the Woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write ASiB from John's perspective since he wasn't actually present for a lot of what happened between Sherlock and Irene. Additionally, I've always felt that that John's cold attitude towards Irene was more due to the emotional hardship she put Sherlock through than jealousy. This fic is basically my season 4 headcanon.


	2. Your Bittersweet Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John Watson bet his wife 50 quid that Sherlock Holmes did not save Irene Adler's life, he didn't expect to lose quite so dramatically. Irene Adler is back in London but what, or rather who, could be so dangerous to force her out of hiding? And, will Sherlock trust her after four years, without so much as a text between them?

John Watson took a deep breath before ascending the staircase into the apartment that used to be his home. Tapping his fingers against the side of his thighs, he barely had a few moments to contemplate how best to broach his best friend on the topic of Irene Adler, before Sherlock opened the door and yanked him inside,

“Oi, what the-?”

Sherlock slammed the door behind them before turning to face a startled John regaining his balance after being so unceremoniously thrown into the living room of 221b. Sherlock adjusted his jacket before speaking,

“Don’t linger on landings, John. Strangers, criminals, clients- they linger on landings and considering you are a member of none of the aforementioned categories and you’re exhibiting all the behavioural mannerisms of apprehension and hesitance, I would appreciate it if you cut to the chase and asked whatever tedious favour you came here to ask so I can say no and get back to my work.”

“Okay, alright- Take a breath, mate.” John said, eyeing his best friend up and down and looking around, frowning. The place looked even worse than the last time he had been there.

Sherlock’s ‘web’ as he called it, had grown and meant that to move through the apartment, one had to navigate the seemingly endless amount of string  that had been strung up all over the place. Connecting the various different articles, photographs, tweets and texts that Sherlock had plastered the walls with in his search for Moriarty. _You can’t even see the wallpaper now_ , John thought. John wiped his nose, though, it did nothing to get rid of the stench of – was it sulphur? - lingering in the air.

“If it’s about babysitting Ella, I refuse.” Sherlock was crouching on the ground, his fingers dancing across the keyboard of one of the half a dozen laptops sprawled across the floor.

“As her Godfather, you should spend some human time with her- You know, at some point.” John said, “What’s that sme-?” 

Sherlock cut him off, “I’m busy. Tend to your own offspring.” He said. John clenched and unclenched his fist,

“It’s not about Ella, Sherlock.” John said. Sherlock gasped in a way that made John want to punch him.

“Do go on, then.” Sherlock got up off the floor and walked over to his desk. Ducking around sections of the ‘web’ as he did. John stayed where he was,

“Well,” John said stiffly, “It’s about Irene Adler.” For the tiniest fragment of a second, John could’ve sworn he saw Sherlock freeze. As if even the sound of her name was enough to distract every single cell in his body from its usual function. But seconds later  John was sure he had imagined it, as Sherlock continued to make adjustments to the tangents of the web.

“What about her? Is she still in America?” he spoke with the air of someone who was trying to appear interested in the weather.

John took a breath,“You tell me.”  

Sherlock broke the string he had been adjusting, “What the hell are you talking about?” he snarled back, scrambling to pick it up. John paused for a long moment before responding,

“Oh, to hell with it! Sherlock, I’m talking about the fact that you and I both know I told you a lie when I told you she was in America.” When the string snapped it had pulled many of the articles it had been attached to off the wall into a heap on the floor. Sherlock had picked them up and was standing on the sofa, pinning them back in their places. John heard it creak under his weight,

“You think you were lying?” Sherlock muttered distractedly as he tried to replace the fallen mangles of his web. John sighed at him,

“Don’t play dumb, Sherlock. You know you can’t pull it off- Wait, what-?” John stopped, realizing what Sherlock had just said, “Wait, what-?” he repeated, “Of course, I was lying.” A flicker of something like panic darted across Sherlock’s face as he turned to face John.

“What?” Sherlock asked in a voice that was almost a squeak.

“Oh, no no no no no, don’t do that. Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing you’re doing right now. Where you avoid the explanation by asking questions.”

“Explanation of-?”

“The explanation of why the great Sherlock Holmes will chastise me for lying about riding my bike to work, but didn’t bat an eyelash when I tried to cover up the fact that the Woman he fell for died.” John watched the colour drain from Sherlock’s face. Wavering just for a moment, opening and closing his mouth, “Is she alive, Sherlock?” John persisted, a little more gently,

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s voice was thick.

Sherlock-?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” he bellowed, John backed away from him and watched as Sherlock dragged his fingers down over his face, before balling his hands into fists, “What do you want me to say, John?” Sherlock growled, “Want me to tell you how I infiltrated a terrorist cell alone and saved her after months of letting everyone, including her, believe that I hated her?” Sherlock gritted his teeth, “Or perhaps how it was me that told her never to contact me under any circumstances?” He was moving restlessly around the room now.

“Sherlock, I-”

“Or that if anyone stupid enough finds that out now they will draw the conclusion that Moriarty’s resurrection is my doing as well?” Sherlock dragged a hand through his curls, “Or perhaps how I did all that in a pathetic,” he spat the word, “pitiful effort to keep one other person safe from Jim Moriarty. But as per usual, Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock’s voice oozed with loathing, “has made sure that that is irrelevant!” Without warning, Sherlock flung the contents of his desk to the floor. Breathing rapidly, and before John could even get a word in, Sherlock was standing directly in front of him,

“You want to know if she’s alive?” Sherlock growled, his eyes blazing, “ _You_ want to know,” Sherlock chuckled but there was no humor behind it, “You want to know.” He repeated, his voice fading. He turned away from him and began to pick up the papers he’d thrown to the ground, “Tell Mary, I appreciate her concern.”

John frowned, “How did you-?” He started.

“You didn’t know I was lying before and I know she’s been reading your blog.” Sherlock's voice was robotic, “You should probably return to your family, I have work to do.”

John stood there for a long moment, staring desperately at his best friend as if maybe staring at him long enough would eventually result in Sherlock understanding just how worried he was about him. But he knew from experience that it wouldn’t. He was Sherlock Holmes and right now being Sherlock Holmes seemed like it was the most difficult thing for anyone to be.

John sighed, “See you, then.”

“Mm,” Sherlock responded, without looking up.

***

Sherlock stared pointedly at the papers on the floor as he gathered them in his hands. This was partly in an effort not to make eye contact with John’s 'Poor, Sherlock' face that had practically become his permanent expression whenever he looked at him these days. But mostly because he wanted to ignore the apparition of Irene Adler that had appeared in the living room. Thankfully, John was nearly at the door.

“That was touching,” the apparition cooed playfully. Sherlock said nothing. He wasn’t in the mood to respond to his deliria today. Standing up, he crossed the room to place the papers on the coffee table and saw that, for some reason, John had frozen in the doorway.

“That entire speech, but I don’t get a ‘hello’, Mr Holmes?” the apparition drawled, Sherlock didn’t look at her. Though, out of the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help but think it odd that her hair was shorter, the ends of it barely brushing the pulse point on her neck. He shook his head and his eyes met with a petrified looking John, half turned in the door frame and spluttering profanities,

“Oh my god-” John stuttered, his eyes wide and worried.

“John, what-?” Sherlock frowned, watching John look wildly between him and the point where Sherlock saw Irene Adler standing, “What?” Sherlock repeated. John actually laughed, “What!?” Sherlock heard the apparition of Irene chuckle as it moved to stand at his side,

“Poor thing.” It mused, “Give it a minute, darling. It’ll come to you.” and Sherlock realized something, then. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his heart skip a beat before it began slamming against his rib cage.

He realized he could smell her perfume. _COCO Noir_ , he thought, judging by the floral bouquet that assailed his nostrils. He realized the heat he could feel in the air beside him was her body heat as it radiated from her and, that the slow and constant whisper of air he could hear, was her breathing beside him.

Sherlock's hands balled into fists at his sides as 4 out of his 5 senses forced him to arrive at the conclusion that Irene Adler was alive and that, to touch her, he would barely have to raise his hand. Slowly, he turned his head, feeling his eyes drag downward to all but inevitably meet her bemused and slightly patronizing expression.

Of all the things he thought of saying and even feared he would never say to her, Sherlock would be quite certain later that the next two words he spoke, the first two words he would be speaking to Miss Adler since he had saved her life all those years ago, were poorly mannered to say the least,

“Get out.” Sherlock breathed through clenched teeth.

The corner of her mouth twitch up,“Is that what you usually say to me in your imagination?” She teased.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Sherlock retorted.  Irene chuckled at him, the sound washing over Sherlock’s eardrums so that he could suddenly feel his heartbeat in every nerve of his body,

“I’m flattered.” She said.

“Fascinating. I’d rather you were leaving.”

She smiled, “You’re still a terrible liar.” 

“And you’re still here.” He snapped. Irene lifted her head and raised her eyebrows, adopting the smirk Sherlock was surprised he had recollected perfectly when he had pictured her. He shook his head again.

“I love what you’ve done with the place.” She said. Sherlock heard the heel of her shoe click against the floor as she turned around, taking her eyes away from his so as to take in the apartment and his web. Giving Sherlock the opportunity to let his eyes slide over the rest of her, frowning at the way the fitted white blouse she wore hung just loosely enough out of her high waisted black jeans to fail hiding the - Sherlock guessed - 12 or 13 pounds that were missing from her subtly curved frame.

Dr Watson!” She chirped with apparent delight. John was still staring at her, standing stock still in the doorway with his jaw halfway to the floor, “My belated congratulations to you on your matrimonies and offspring.”

“Er-?” he glanced at Sherlock and Sherlock saw something like a bemused glint in his eye, “Thank you, Miss Adler.” John managed, “You look-” Sherlock felt himself bristle, glaring at John as he struggled to finish his sentence, “alive.” He finished.

She smiled, “Well, I can’t take all the credit for that.” Her gaze met Sherlock’s and her lips parted in a smirk, “Did you miss me?”

Sherlock sucked in his breath. He could hear his heart thudding against his ears. From the corner of his eye he saw John’s expression become wary,

“You,” he breathed, staring down into her face “have 10 seconds to one, give me a hell of a good reason for your invasion of my home or two, leave.”

Irene folded her arms,“Or?” she asked calmly.

“Or I’ll volunteer you for protective custody.” Sherlock growled.

She chuckled, “Corpses don’t need protective custody.”

“Tax frauds go to prison.” Retorted Sherlock.

Irene laughed, “Tax fraud? Surely, you can do better than that.”

“You’ve been dead for four years. I’m sure you wouldn’t want the wrong people finding out that wasn’t quite true.” Sherlock never let his glare leave hers, but Irene stood her ground,

“We both know it would look bad if you turned me in at this juncture, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock sighed, “Yes but if an anonymous tipster saw Irene Adler wandering the streets of central London,” he shook his head, “Obviously, you’re hiding. You’re too intelligent to do anything to compromise yourself - broadly speaking,” he added, “Your 10 seconds deteriorates, Miss Adler.” Sherlock drawled, trying to ignore the jolt realization that that was the first time in four years he had addressed her by her name. Irene raised her eyebrows at him, glaring at him for a few moments before Sherlock saw a smile curl her thin red lips.

She raised an eyebrow at him,“Fine. Which would you prefer? I need your help or you need mine?” 

“7 seconds.” He growled.

“A mutually beneficial partnership, then?”

“5 seconds.” Sherlock watched her reach into her back pocket. Producing a small red circular flash drive, she held it out in front of him between leather gloved fingers.

“Your bittersweet salvation, Mr Holmes.” 

Sherlock scowled at her. But before he could comment that he wasn’t interested, he heard a voice waft up towards them from the staircase through the open door that made him squeeze his eyes shut momentarily in dread.

“John, what are you doing just standing there? I’ve been trying to call you for half an hour. Thought I’d drop by here anyway. Ella’s vaccinations were this morning, we forgot. She’s just down there with Mrs H- John? Oh my-!” Mary Watson had appeared behind her husband in the doorway of 221b. As she laid eyes on the scene in front of her, Sherlock saw the grin dance across her cheeks before she tried to cover it with her hand. Nudging John, Sherlock swore he heard her mutter, “You so owe me 50 quid.”

Sherlock returned his attention to Irene Adler, still holding her flash drive aloft before his gaze.

“It seems we have an audience.” She mused, glancing over at Mary and John before looking back down at the flash drive and then back to him. Sherlock tried not to think about how similar the color of her eyes were to his own and how that always made him feel something akin to smug,

“If it’s Kate Middleton’s nudes, they’re all yours.” said Sherlock.

It was her turn to scowl, “You’ve been hunting Moriarty for months.”

“An acute observation.”

She glared at him, “Then, you’ll know about Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock saw his eyes widen in the reflection of hers and was sure he heard Mary gasp, echoing his exact sentiment.

“No one knows about Sebastian Moran.” His voice was tighter than he intended, “Not unless you have a violent and bloody death wish.”

“Well, then,” Irene took a step towards him, “It’s a good thing we’re already technically dead. Isn’t it, Mr Holmes?”

“Speak for yourself.” His voice was low as he took the flash drive from her, brushing the leather of her glove as he did. Tilting his head to examine it, he ignored the tingling sensation spreading through his fingertips from where he had touched her glove. He frowned,

“How much?” He looked up at her.

“Everything from the last 2 years, right up until 3 days from now. He has a target in London.” Her smile was smug. Sherlock smirked at her,

“How much?” He repeated.

She grinned,“Very good, Mr Holmes.”

“Information always has a price. I had foolishly hoped you would have learned by now, Miss Adler.” He held her gaze for a moment, “You’ll have encrypted every file on here and as much as I would love to spend another month of my life deciphering your passcodes, I wouldn’t. What do you want?”

“I’m staying here until you find him.”

“Absolutely not.” Sherlock became acutely aware of his slamming heart and the heat that rushed to his cheeks as he heard the collective intake of breath from John, Mary and, he now saw, Mrs Hudson. Carrying a snoozing baby Ella Watson in her arms.

“That’s my price.” Irene said.

“Yes, well, the beauty of being a consulting detective is that I get to choose my clients. Moran is a loyal dog I don’t want the dog. I want his master. I’m trying to limit the murderous psychopaths in my life, thanks. ” He held the flash drive back out to her.

“Dogs go wild without their owners,” she said, ignoring his outstretched hand “And they always return home to their masters.”

Sherlock glowered at her, “How did you get this information?” He asked.

“Disgracefully.” She answered with a smirk. Sherlock stepped toward her, closing the space between them. He was so close to her the only thing he could smell was her perfume. He could see his furious face reflected in her eyes and hear her breath slightly faster in the air between them,

“Give me a reason.” He breathed through gritted teeth, “Give me a reason to trust this. I dare you.”

A smile curled her lips, “Take a look around, Mr Holmes.” Her glare never faltered. Mutinously, he dragged his eyes away from her and looked beyond her to the thousands of fragments of data he’d strung up and plastered over nearly every inch of Baker St. His eyes ran over the dozen laptops and computers he had scattered on the floor, to the photographs drowning his desk, all of it evidence of the lack of progress he had made in finding the napoleon of crime and the most dangerous criminal the world had ever known. He saw the Watsons. All three of them standing in the doorway, including baby Ella as she slept soundly in Mrs Hudson’s arms before, eventually and inevitably, his eyes returned to Miss Adler’s.

 _She was there,_ he thought. After four years of lingering in the corners of his consciousness and haunting his palace of memories, she was looking back at him. _She was here._ They were all here and, whether he took the case or not, Moriarty’s most loyal and deadly lieutenant would be here in three days.

Sherlock hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes until he opened them and took a step back from her. Twirling the flash drive between his fingers, he sighed,

“3 days? I would have preferred a little more notice, Miss Adler.” Sherlock watched her nose twitch as she tried and failed to suppress a smile and the tension flooding from her shoulders. Though, when she spoke, her voice dripped with self-satisfaction,

“I wouldn’t want you to be bored.”

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth move upward, “Never could make things easy for me, could you?” He said.

Irene chuckled at him,“Call it returning the favor.” She replied and this time he returned her smile. They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds. Maybe it was minutes. But for however long Sherlock allowed his eyes to soak in the sight of a very pleased Miss Adler, it didn’t last.

“Sorry, hi, hello, hate to interrupt this er-” Mary faltered for a moment as she stepped passed John and brought herself to stand in front of Sherlock and Irene, her eyes running between them, “Reunion.” She finished, “But the only way you’re going to catch Moran is with evidence of his actual existence. DNA, photos, etc. It’s the only way guys like him get caught and it’s the one thing they never leave behind.”  Sherlock blinked at her, he felt like he had been woken after falling asleep. John appeared at her side, looking as surprised at her knowledge of Moran as Sherlock felt. He was about to respond when,

“You mean something like this?” None of them had noticed Miss Adler had left the room. She was walking back toward them from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom, carrying a wooden box about the size of tissue box in her gloved hands. Bringing it over to the coffee table, she placed it down and unclipped the buckles. Mary, John, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson all gathered around Irene to peer at the contents. Sherlock, very irritable of how acutely aware he was that their shoulders were inches apart as Miss Adler opened the box. Inside was a small silver handgun. 32 calibre pistol, Sherlock thought, and it was covered in dry blood. Mrs Hudson turned herself and Ella away,

“Really, Sherlock?” She moaned, “This time of day?” She took Ella out of the apartment.

“Whose gun is this?” Sherlock asked, looking up from the gun at Irene.

“It’s Moran’s blood.” she answered.

“I didn’t ask about the blood. I asked about the gun.”

After a moment, she responded, “Moran’s. It has his insignia on the handle.” Sherlock turned away from her and looked at the gun, tilting his head until the letters S.M. glinted in the afternoon summer sunrays that poured in through Baker Street’s windows. He straightened up, closing the lid on the box with a snap.

“What are you doing?” Asked John.

“Call Molly, tell her to meet at Bart’s in 20 minutes.” Sherlock was yanking on his coat, “You,” he pointed at Irene, “Go downstairs and hail a cab.”

She raised an eyebrow at him,“Why?”

“Because you’re lying to me and I’d like to find out which particular lie is the most dangerous before it’s too late this time.” He snapped. Irene didn’t move. “Or stay here alone in the apartment of a man being hunted by two of the most dangerous killers on the planet. Up to you.” Irene turned on her heel and left the room, just as John sidled up to Sherlock,

“You okay, mate?” His voice was low.

“Spectacular.”  Chimed Sherlock exasperatedly as he pocketed the flash drive. Mary walked over to them,

“I’m going to take Ella for her vaccinations, but Mrs H said she’ll look after her for a few hours after. Meet you at Bart’s in an hour?”

John nodded when Sherlock didn’t respond, “See you soon, love.” John said, kissing Mary on the cheek.

“You bet you will and you better have my 50 quid.”

Sherlock frowned at the exchange between them watching Mary head down the stairs to Mrs Hudson’s apartment.

“Why does she keep talking about 50 quid?” Sherlock asked. To his surprise, John sniggered,

“What-? Nothing. Don’t worry.” But as Sherlock stepped out of the flat, walked down the stairs, pushed passed lingering pedestrian’s outside Speedy’s to slip into the back of a cab beside Irene Adler and began heading towards Bart’s Hospital, he knew he had far more dangerous things to worry about than John and Mary’s apparent gambling on his social life.

 

***

Sebastian Moran doused his cigarette in the half eaten sandwich that belonged to the man in the couple at the table next to him. Both of them were so engrossed in their trivial tiff over whose responsibility it was that their dog had killed the neighbor's cat, apparently it was really his dog though it had been her responsibility to make sure it was inside when they left for work, that they didn’t notice as he slid his hand along the table and effortlessly pocketed her mobile phone.

Removing his sunglasses and beanie, though they were technically never his to begin with, he tossed them behind him. His mouth twisting into a smile as he heard the protests of whatever mass of insignificant collection skin, bone and stupid they had hit. Chuckling, he pushed his mop of long dark hair from his face.

The man in the long coat didn’t even apologise as he shoved Sebastian aside to join the Woman in the cab she had hailed outside this tiny sandwich bar in the middle of London. Sebastian Moran lit his next cigarette, the sound of petulant whispers reverberating in the air around him,

“Was that him-?”

“Was that Sherlock Holmes-?”

“Who was that woman he was with?"

Moran’s twisted grin remained an ever present streak upon his features. He brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, tossing his head back before releasing the smoke from between his lips. In his other hand, he held the phone. His fingers sliding across the screen, entering the pin he’d seen the lady type earlier and started dialing the number. He took another drag of the cigarette as he held the phone to his ear. It picked up almost instantly,

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Good af’ernoon, Mr ‘Olmes.”

“Who is this?”

“You don’t know me.” He exhaled the cigarette smoke, “No one does and no one e’er will. But I’d like to report a suspicious person seen around the area of 221b Baker St.”

Mycroft Holmes sighed, “You mean, besides yourself?” '

Moran chuckled into the phone,“You see, Mr ‘olmes, this particular person was known to be in close consort with Jim Moriarty because this particular person,” Sebastian felt his eye twitch, “is Irene Adler.”

\------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that there is a collective agreement among the Irene/Sherlock fandom that something happened between them post-reichenbach. Some people even think they had a kid or some such nonsense (sorry, I have many issues with the whole Hamish/Nero Wolfe saga). However, this fic is written under the pretense that there hasn't been any contact between them in that time. Sherlock has not seen or heard from her since he saved her life. Something I deduced from the whole "God knows where she is." line in The Sign of Three and kinda made me sad. 
> 
> Questions?: snogboxez.tumblr.com


	3. The Art Of Making Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock Holmes had woken up that morning in mid-July, the last place he had expected to be that evening was sitting beside Irene Adler in a cab on the way to St. Bart’s Hospital. But, if they're going to have any chance of finding Sebastian Moran, he's going to need Molly's help. So, what will Molly Hooper make of the Woman?

When Sherlock Holmes had woken up that morning in mid-July, the last place he had expected to be that evening was sitting beside Irene Adler in a cab on the way to St. Bart’s Hospital. In any case he had certainly not expected to ever be hunting Sebastian Moran. But, as the cab turned a sharp corner, causing the tabloid magazine in the seat pocket of the driver’s seat in front of him to fall to floor between them, he knew the events of the day were not going to improve.

“Oh, who’s that?” Irene chirped. Sherlock stared pointedly out the window and willed his cheeks not to burn. “She’s pretty.” the playful edge to her voice made Sherlock genuinely consider hurling himself from the moving cab.

“Not really your type.” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice expressionless.

“Oh, I don’t know” Irene drawled. “Opportunistic, compulsive liar,” she paused, “knows her toys.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched her lips curl into a crooked a smile. Her leather gloved fingers flicking ever so lightly through the crumpled tabloid that was plastered with his and Janine’s faces, “I’m sure we could have some fun.”

Sherlock refused to give her the satisfaction of defending Janine or himself, though ultimately this seemed to make things more amusing for her. Irene clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The sound seemed crackle against the surface of his very brain.

“The best man and the bridesmaid.” she teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she continued to turn the pages of the magazine, “How disappointingly cliché of you, Mr Holmes.” she sighed over-dramatically. Sherlock continued to stare pointedly out the window at the passing traffic. Forcing himself to focus on the sound of the cars instead of her voice. But with each word she spoke, Sherlock became more and more aware of how warm the inside of the cab seemed, even with the summer heat, and how little space there was between them as she taunted him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Was the breakup that bad?” she jeered.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, “Yes.” Shock flickered across her face at his response, “She broke up with me when I was in hospital.” He watched her face for a reaction. Nothing. “I was shot. I nearly died.”

“God knows you’re used to that.” She muttered.

Sherlock scowled at her, “People left me flowers.” He kept saying, turning his neck to look directly at her face that was still effortlessly maintaining its smirk, “Molly left me tulips. John and Mary didn’t get me anything, thank God. But someone,” he glared at her, “left me a rose.”  She didn’t even blink.

“Perhaps it was Janine.” She let her name roll off the tip of her tongue.

“No.”

“Hmm. So, you have no idea who they were?” she asked with mild intrigue, not taking her eyes off his.

“It would seem so.” Sherlock’s voice was almost a growl.

“Perhaps you’ll figure it out, one day.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good.” She said. They held each other’s glare for a long while before the cabbie’s muffled voice broke through their shared reverie that only seemed to add heat to the stuffy air.

“10 pound, 50, mate.” He sounded irritable, Sherlock thought, like he’d had to repeat himself multiple times. Sherlock grabbed the box containing Moran’s bloody gun from the space between him and Miss Adler and, without looking at the cabbie, threw a 20 in his direction. Muttering that he could keep the change, Sherlock hopped out of the cab. Reluctantly, he held the door open for Miss Adler as she stepped out too, the heels of her boots clicking against the pavement as she did. Without a word, Sherlock slammed the door shut and the cabby drove off almost instantly.

St. Bart’s hospital loomed over them. Another shade of grey in this perpetually damp city of greys and blues.

“Does it ever feel odd for you coming to this place? Where people think you died?” Sherlock blinked, taken slightly aback by the question. Though, he already had begun walking towards the front doors.

“As I recall, you were once technically a cadaver in here too, Miss Adler.” He responded. Ignoring his heart as it gave an involuntary skip. 

She gave him an odd smile, then. A smile that seemed curled simultaneously with both a smugness and pleasant surprise,

“I suppose I still am, in a way.” She mused. But Sherlock was barely listening to her. He felt his eye twitch as he inhaled sharply through his nose. Through the glass of the doors, he saw Molly Hooper bouncing on the balls of her heels in the hospital foyer. She looked slightly anxious. Sherlock allowed himself a sideways glance at Miss Adler as they reached the door and suddenly he felt as nervous as Molly looked, though he was not quite sure why. He held out an arm to stop Miss Adler from going through the door,

“Walk behind me.” She looked as if she was about to scoff at him, but before she could mount a retort Sherlock continued, “Need I remind you that you are dead and need to maintain that facade. We also may possibly have the second most dangerous man in Europe following us.”

Irene rolled her eyes at his words, “Why bring me along if it’s so dangerous?”

“Because you,” he held up the small box that contained the gun covered in blood, “Need to take a blood test. Walk behind me.” Sherlock watched her glance in Molly’s direction before scowling at him and taking a step back to stand behind him.

***

When John had called to tell her that Sherlock needed to meet her at the lab in 20 minutes, Molly Hooper thought he’d sounded odd. It was odd that John would call at all. Sherlock usually managed it himself or just texted.  Secondly, Molly also thought that he’d sounded perpetually amused at something, or quite possibly worried. They were all worried about Sherlock these days. Though, she couldn’t quite pinpoint why John might sound amused. But the last thing she had expected was Sherlock to walk into the St Bart’s hospital foyer with a woman on his heels.

Molly’s first thought was that she almost looked like him. With her porcelain skin, thin lips and dark wavy hair whose tips just brushed the edges of her sharply angled cheek bones, it was a little uncanny. Wildly, she thought she could be his sister. But, no. There was something about the way he was moving to stand in front of her that told her she definitely wasn’t his sibling. Especially, the way she was glancing up at him when he wasn’t shooting sideways glances at her.

 _Who was she?_ Molly wondered, her stomach giving a nervous twist. Yet, she couldn’t ignore the feeling that she’d seen her somewhere before.

“Molly, how are you with matching DNA?” Sherlock barked at her as he reached her, not stopping as he spoke. Molly, as usual, fell clumsily into step beside him,

“Er, fair? Need a bit of time though. Maybe a day or two? Why?” Her eyes darted to the woman now walking on Sherlock’s other side. Sherlock handed Molly a wooden box. “What’s this?” they were climbing the stairs to the labs.

“I need you to perform a blood test.”

“Okay,” Molly frowned, “Looking for what, exactly?”

“DNA matches.” he pushed open the door to their usual lap. Letting herself and the woman step inside before he shut the door behind the three of them. Molly was still frowning as she watched him tug off his scarf. The woman that had followed him was looking around the lab with interest.

The way she moved, Molly thought she seemed to hover around him. Just outside his reach. Like she was orbiting him. Sherlock seemed to be trying not to look at her but every few seconds his eyes seemed unable not to find her.

Molly bit her lip before speaking, “Sherlock, what DNA matches?”

“The box you’re holding contains a gun covered in blood. I want to see if it matches.”

“Matches yours?” Molly asked. But she had the feeling she knew the answer.

“Matches hers.” Sherlock confirmed. The woman looked at her.

“And she is-?” Molly began, cautiously.

“Someone whose blood type you need to take, Molly.” Sherlock cut across her. The woman smirked at him and smiled in Molly’s direction,

“Irene Adler, Miss Hooper.” She cooed. Sherlock groaned at her, “You evidently trust her enough to bring me here.” Irene Adler snapped at him. Molly’s eyes darted to Sherlock. She could almost see the vein in his temple throbbing, but after a moment he seemed to resign. But it was clearly not without struggle. Molly just stared, _the way she spoke to him like-_

“Just take her blood type.” He repeated, “I’ll get to work on the gun.” Both Molly and Irene watched him scoop up the box and the gun and disappear into the adjoining lab without looking at either of them. Molly guessed he’d noticed that she’d had to move all his favourite equipment into there. She turned away from the door and was about to tell Irene Adler to take a seat- but stopped short when she glimpsed the grave concern etched into her face.

Irene Adler was still staring after Sherlock, her eyes unblinking and distant. For a moment, Molly thought, she looked oddly helpless – even hurt. Like a kid does when they’re accepting a punishment for something they didn’t do. Molly cleared her throat. Irene Adler hitched back the smug smile she’d been wearing when she’d talked to Sherlock and when her eyes landed on Molly, they seemed alight with curiosity. They were also, Molly hated herself for noticing, a very similar colour to Sherlock’s.

“Would you like me to sit down, Miss Hooper?” She sounded so polite and something else, but Molly couldn’t tell if she was deliberately trying to be coy or not.

“Sitting down is fine. I don’t need a lot of blood.” Molly said. Pulling on her lab coat and gloves, she walked over to a cabinet and began digging around in the drawers for a syringe and a needle. After a few moments she found them and turned around. Irene Adler had perched herself on one of the lab bench stools. Molly took a breath, it wasn’t just the fact that she rarely performed blood tests on the living that was making her nervous.

After retrieving some alcoholic wipes and a few blankly labelled blood tubes from a nearby bench, she pulled up a stool directly in front of Irene Adler. It made a scraping sound and Molly resisted the urge to wince as she sat in it and leaned forward,

“Could you roll up your sleeve, please?”

Irene Adler followed the instruction without answering. Molly looked at her arm and frowned. It was rather odd for someone to be wearing gloves in the middle of summer.

As Irene Adler rolled her sleeve up past her elbow, Molly suddenly became aware that Irene was watching her stare at her gloved hands with an amused expression.

“Sorry, just- it’s warm out.” Molly mumbled as she fastened the tourniquet around the top of Irene’s arm above her elbow and began poking around for a decent vein. She frowned again. They felt tight, she thought. _Almost definitely dehydrated._

“All fashion is sacrifice.” Irene responded. But Molly thought she was lying for some reason. Finally, she located a vein.

“This will sting a bit.” Molly said automatically. Irene Adler actually chuckled,

“Splendid.” She drawled as Molly carefully pushed the needle into her arm. It felt unsteady and it was good few seconds before blood began to trickle slowly into the syringe. _Yep,_ Molly thought, _definitely severe dehydration_ ,

“Who are you?” the words came spilling out of Molly's mouth before she could stop them.

Irene blinked at her, “I already told you.”

“No,” Molly said, “Not your name- I mean,” she sucked in her breath, “Who are you to-” the syringe had filled with blood, “to Sherlock.” Molly finished, carefully pulling the needle from her arm and applying pressure to the incision wound. Though, as she had suspected, there was very little bleeding.

“Perhaps that’s a question better directed at Sherlock.” Irene said carefully.

Molly emptied the syringe into a blood tube before responding, “Probably, but he wouldn’t answer.” She shot a nervous glance at Irene, who chuckled,

“That is true, isn’t it?” Irene mused, “Are you frightened I’m anyone in particular?” Molly wasn’t sure if she wanted to answer that question, quickly busying herself with finding a band aid by rummaging around the draws in the bench beside them.

“No.” her voice sounded more sheepish than she intended, “I just-” Finally, she found a band aid. Unpeeling the wrapping, she placed it on Irene’s arm, but it seemed to have stopped bleeding already, “It’s just that he sees you.” Molly blurted out, cursing herself internally before she’d even finished the sentence.

Irene’s eyes widened,“Pardon?”

Molly lowered her voice, “The thing with Sherlock is – and I’ve known him for a long time, like, ages. Years before even John knew him and the thing is with him is that he doesn’t really see things.” Molly could hear the tentativeness in her own voice, but willed herself to continue as she removed the band from the top of Irene’s arm, “He’s so busy noticing that he doesn’t actually look at things- people.” She took a breath, “I don’t know who you are but as far as I can see,” Molly stared at her feet, “He definitely sees you.” She got up, avoiding Irene’s gaze as she packed up the syringe and tossed it into a waste bin, “Must be nice.” She sighed to herself so that Irene couldn’t hear.

“He appears to consider you a friend, Miss Hooper.” Irene stated, as if she was describing the weather. Molly kept her back turned, sticking a label on the tube filled with Irene’s blood, “Evidently, he trusts you. Believes you when you tell him things.” Molly turned to look at her. Irene was looking in the direction of the adjoining lab where Sherlock was. But when Molly’s eyes reached her face Irene turned to look directly at her and said, “Must be nice.” The playful smirk curling her features all of a sudden appearing hollow, “Although,” Irene sighed, “Probably not so nice when you’re that head over heels in love with him,”

Molly felt her jaw drop. Her words stumbling over one another in an effort to protest, “I’m not-”

“Yes, you are.” Irene cut across her bluntly. Molly could hear her heartbeat in her ears as she stared pointedly at the floor.

“He’s probably in love with you.” Was the retort she managed to eventually mumble, forcing herself to look Irene in the eye. To her surprise, Irene gave a laugh that was almost as hollow as her smirk. Molly waited for her response,

“Such a specific phrase, ‘in love with,’” Irene mused, “It implies understanding and equality of the feeling shared between two people.” Molly was staring at her, “However,” Irene looked right at Molly, “that’s rarely the case, is it?”

Molly continued to stare at her for a moment before she walked over to lean on the bench near her, “Tell me about it.” Molly gave her a weak smile. Which, to her surprise, Irene returned, “Do you want some water?” Molly asked.

“Please,” Irene responded. But before Molly could get her some, John walked into the room looking frazzled,

“Oh,” he said, when he spotted the two of them, “Hi, have either of you seen Sherlock?”

“Out the back.” Molly answered. But at that moment, Sherlock reappeared.

“The blood on the gun is quite possibly too old but I think I can get something out of it.” He said.

“Sherlock-” John strode over to him and whispered something to him in a voice so low Molly couldn’t hear him. Whatever it was, Sherlock’s face went pale,

“What-?!” Sherlock spluttered. John nodded at him, an indicator to keep his voice down. Molly was quite sure he tilted his head towards Irene. Sherlock began tugging on his coat, “Right, you,” he pointed at Irene, “We’re leaving.”

“Oh?” said Irene, her voice dripping with disdain, “But I was just starting to make friends,” she paused, “Besides, I’m not arriving and leaving with you. The great Sherlock Holmes can’t be seen dragging the same woman around town. I’ll leave with Dr Watson.” Molly watched Sherlock’s eye twitch again. Evidently struggling to find a flaw in her logic, but was coming up dry.

“Is Mary here?” he shot at John.

“Er-?” John pulled his phone out of his back pocket and looked at the screen, “Oh, she just pulled up.”

Sherlock nodded impatiently, “Tell Mary to take her back to the flat and that she has to tail our cab.”

“Our cab-?”

“You’re coming with me.” Sherlock interjected, “Molly,” Molly looked up at him, “Text me when those results come through.” He said. She nodded at him.

“I’ll take you to the car. I think I know where she parked,” John said, pocketing his phone and looking at Irene,

“Thank you, Dr Watson.” Irene got up and followed John out of the room. Winking as she reached the door. Molly wondered if it was directed at her or Sherlock. Together, they stood there in silence for a moment. From the corner of her eye, Molly could see Sherlock staring at the place where Irene had been sitting. He turned up his coat collar,

“Thank you, Molly” he muttered distractedly as he began to head towards the door.

“Sherlock-? Wait,” Sherlock paused at the door, but didn’t turn to look at her. When he didn’t say anything, Molly pressed on, “Irene-,” she corrected herself, “Miss Adler, she’s not- I mean, her blood- I just-” Molly took a breath, “I don’t think she’s okay-” _and neither are you,_ she wanted to add. She surprised herself at the concern in her voice, though. Despite the fact that she hardly knew her. But what surprised her even more was that when Sherlock turned to his head to look at her, _maybe it was the uneven lighting in the lab?_ Molly could’ve sworn his eyes were shining.

“Yes,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of any expression, “Text me the results.” And without another word, he left the room.

***

 

Sitting on the bottom 3 stairs that lead up to 221b, Mycroft Holmes had his palms pressed together, his elbows pressing into his knees. The tips of his fingers resting against his lips as he listened intently to the sound of his own sharp breaths passing swiftly through his nostrils. His earpiece crackled,

“Mr Holmes, do you want us to detain Sherlock Holmes on entry?”

Mycroft sighed, “Your instructions are to detain Miss Adler upon entry.”

“Yes, sir.” He rolled his eyes. _Imbecilic little goldfish._

“We’ll just wait and see what my little brother does when we detain Miss Adler.” Mycroft muttered as the microphone clicked off.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always really very extremely deeply resented the idea that Molly and Irene would hate each other and this is simply because THEY DO NOT KNOW EACH OTHER. For Irene Adler, Molly Hooper is a name she heard John say. For Molly Hooper, Irene Adler was a name whispered around a naked body she watched Sherlock identify from “not her face”. Gosh, every time I see a jealousy fic about these two I wanna tear my hair out and scream this from the rooftops. How can you be jealous of a relationship someone may or may not have with a person you care about, when the person you’re jealous of can’t even define that relationship themselves? These two women are fascinating (not to mention fucking awesome). They are polar opposites in personality and yet, Sherlock Holmes cares for BOTH OF THEM, and neither of them can quite nail down in precisely what way or why. They are also both VERY empathetic and intelligent. I’m not saying they’d be BFFs that would brush each other’s hair and shit but they would NOT hate each other for something as simple and coincidental as the fact they are both women in the life of Sherlock Holmes.  
> This is not a jealously fic. Nor is it a fic where I’m trying to tell you which relationship is better for Sherlock or whatever. Both relationships have incredible flaws and, for the most part, are undefined (like pretty much all of Sherlock’s relationships) and even though both Molly and Irene’s relationships with Sherlock have aspects the other would like to have, (Molly wants the romantic attachment and Irene would love it for Sherlock to trust her for once and for their relationship to not feel like a game) Neither of these women would, in any way, want to be sitting where the other is. *drops microphone* Thank you.  
> Also this is the first time I’ve written from Molly’s perspective and I had fun.


	4. Protection Detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If she had to admit it, Mary Watson was slightly excited at the prospect of being alone with the Woman. But, as the hunt for Sebastian Moran continues, will Mycroft be a hindrance or help to his little brother? And, how long can Irene Adler continue to hide her mysterious injuries from the man who once saved her life?

If she had to admit it, Mary Watson was slightly excited at the prospect of being alone with the Woman. Sherlock had been quite firm (to put it lightly) on his insistence that Miss Adler would travel back to 221b from St Bart’s in a different vehicle  to the one in which she had arrived. And Mary couldn’t blame him. After all, it was Sebastian Moran’s attentions they were possibly avoiding.

“Careful, love.” John had said, pecking her on the cheek after escorting Irene Adler to the car.

“You too,” Mary had said automatically before adding in a whisper, “Look after him, okay?”

Disgruntled, John had disappeared into a cab with Sherlock. Shooting a glance back at Irene Adler before he did. It was odd watching her husband around the Woman, Mary thought. So overly cautious, but there was something eager in it. Like he was constantly on the verge of asking her something but had decided against it. Although, after watching how Sherlock behaved around Irene Adler for herself, Mary couldn’t blame his curiosity. Or his concern, for that matter.

They drove for a good ten minutes in silence before London’s congested traffic brought the car to a jagged crawl. Irene had said nothing since she had gotten into the car. Merely stared pointedly ahead of her through the windscreen at Sherlock and John’s cab. Absently twirling a few strands of her hair between her fingers as she did so. Mary couldn’t help but notice she was wearing thick leather gloves and it was the middle of July.

“Does Dr Watson know?” the Woman’s voice broke through Mary’s reverie.

“Know what?” Mary shot a sideways glance at her in the front seat of the car.

“About your,” she paused, rolling the phrase around her tongue before she spoke it, “previous occupation?”  

 _Red light._ Mary hit the brakes. Keeping her eyes on the road, though she could feel the Woman watching her.

It was a long moment before she carefully gave her response, “Yes, he does.”

“Oh,” the Woman seemed for a moment to be genuinely surprised, “Well, honesty is the key to any successful marriage.” she chanted mockingly.

“As I’m sure you’ve no doubt proven by embodying the latter.” Mary retorted, a hint of admiration in her tone despite herself.

Irene chuckled, “Well, you would be sure, wouldn’t you, Mrs Watson? How long were you following me? 4 months?”

Mary frowned, “3” she answered. The light finally turned green. Sherlock and John’s cab was now two cars ahead of them. Mary tapped her foot lightly on the accelerator.

“Ah,” Irene said with the equivalent air of someone who had been told the weather was going to be nice today, “Wife or husband?”

“They both hired me separately.”

Irene chuckled at her again, “I suppose we have that in common.” she said.

Mary couldn’t help herself, letting out a hollow snigger before she replied, “But it was the husband who put the hit on you.”

Irene rolled her eyes, “If only men’s minds are were as flexible as their-" she paused, "-other areas. Although, as I recall, the wife was surprisingly flexible too.” Irene mused to herself.

“You single headedly ruined their careers. Not to mention their marriage.” Mary stated, trying not to sound too impressed.

Irene clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, “Does that make me a bad person?” she cooed, her voice smug. Her wavy hair bouncing against her neck as she turned to look pointedly at Mary. Mary matched her stare for a moment before she spoke,

“No. Not necessarily.” Mary said. Irene continued to smile smugly at her, “But it does make you a target.” finished Mary, but Irene continued to smirk.

“Not always, it would seem.” she said. Mary looked away from her. The traffic starting to move again, albeit slowly.

“Would you like me to thank you for not killing me?” Irene’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Mary scowled in her direction.

“Oh please, don't bother." said Mary, "I don’t like wasting bullets on hypocrites. Besides, his association with you got him and his wife both what they deserved.”

Irene seemed to be trying not to smile and Mary tried hard not to return it, “All in a night’s work. Though, he did prefer it in the day time. As I remember…” Irene’s voice trailed off as she looked ahead of her. They sat in silence for another few minutes. Sherlock and John’s cab now back in front of them in the traffic. Mary could just see John’s whispy grey streaks through the grubby back window. Sherlock’s head was clearly visible as it swayed with the movement of the cab, turned to stare out the window beside him.

Shooting a sideways look at Irene, Mary wondered if she was looking at Sherlock. Obviously she could just be watching the traffic, but there was something about the way she had cocked her head ever so slightly to the side and the way her eyes had glazed over. For a moment, she looked so far away Mary had the urge to gently remind her where she was.

“I know what that’s like.” Mary said, surprising herself.

Irene frowned, “Pardon?”

Mary chose her next words cautiously, “When you want,” she paused, “someone to trust you. But they won’t accept what you’ve told them.”

Irene laughed, a sound devoid of humor, “Ah, so Dr. Watson did not take the knowledge of your previous occupation in high spirits-”

Mary cut across her gloating, “My point is the right people will understand if what you’ve done you’ve done for the right reasons.”

“And what if I have Sherlock hunting Moran for the wrong reasons?” asked Irene. Mary’s skin crawled at the sound of Moran’s name as she looked over at Irene, thinking of the flashdrive the Woman had given Sherlock containing intel on Moran from the last two years. Knowing there was no way Irene could have gotten that kind of information on a man as lethal as him without consequence.

“Then, I’m sorry.” Mary said and she meant it too. Irene looked away from her. But not before she saw the color drain from Irene’s face. Turning her skin even paler than it was. She almost looked like a ghost, Mary thought.

Bar from the incessantly dull roar of London’s evening traffic, the rest of the journey was a soundless one. Mary drove on while Irene sat watching the road ahead of her without another word or even a glance between them.

When they reached Baker Street, Mary pulled the car over to the curb and couldn’t help but feel slightly amused when she saw Sherlock standing, almost at attention, on the pavement. From the corner of her eye she saw Irene roll her eyes at the sight and Mary had to stifle a laugh as Irene swung the car door open and got out to join Sherlock on the curb.

 

***

“Good. You’re here.” Sherlock shot at her impatiently when she eventually joined him on the pavement outside Speedy’s.  John had gone over to talk to Mary and he could see them talking to one another in hushed tones. Complete with furtive glances over at himself and the Woman.

“Mr Holmes!” Irene chirped, her voice dripping with sarcasm beneath apparent delight, “It’s been so long. Too long. I’d say about 15 minutes?”

Sherlock scowled at her, clenching his teeth against the retort formed in the back of his throat. Spitefully, he held her gaze. It had to be the most frustrating fact about him. How much of a momentous effort dragging his eyes away from Irene Adler could be. Even more frustrating? Was how much he enjoyed it. Nevertheless, he turned on his heel and headed towards the front door of 221b. But he stopped. 

Sniffing the air, he could smell multiple shades of men’s deodorant. All of which were unfamiliar. Looking behind him at Miss Adler, he frowned before moving to stand directly in front of her. Making sure to jiggle his key loudly in the lock of the door before he carefully pushed it open and stepped over the threshold.

For a few seconds, everything seemed still. The smell of multiple different men’s deodorants continued to assault his nostrils. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed before a lazy all too familiar voice ordered,

“Seize them.” 

Sherlock turned around to look at Irene, but he had barely turned his head before she shoved him aside, sending him staggering the wall of the narrow corridor. Barely gaining his balance, Sherlock rounded on her. But 4 men had launched themselves at himself and Irene and catching her off guard was enough. She lost her balance and hit the floor with a thud that echoed loudly against the walls of Sherlock’s skull. One man holding her there while the other wasted no time in binding her hands behind her back.

A cry of ‘NO!’ wrenched itself from Sherlock’s throat, but the men that were upon him were distinctly bigger and in this confined space, they used that to their advantage. Sherlock only managing a few solid punches and a head-butt before he too had his face being pressed against Mrs Hudson’s horrible paisley rug. 5 years of dust tickling his nose. He winced as plastic bonds were fastened a little too tightly around his wrists.

“Oh, little brother.” A pompous voice above his head drawled, “What have you done?” Both he and Miss Adler were hauled gruffly to their knees. Sherlock distinctly heard her sigh,

“I used to get paid extravagantly for this sort of treatment, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock glanced at her and felt his heart drop into his stomach. Irene was pale. A dull grey shade that made her look like a freshly recovered corpse as she swayed unsteadily on the spot. Her breathing sounding jagged and desperate as she seemed to force it from her lungs into the air around them. But, when she looked up at Mycroft floating down Baker Street’s stairwell, there was nothing unsteady about the loathing in her gaze. Despite it all, Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward, the threat of a smile, before he allowed his face to wear the same.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, “I’m very busy so could we perhaps deal with your stupidity,” he spat the word, “at a more convenient time?”

“Busy?” Mycroft mimicked, looking down at the Woman, “Is that what you’re calling it, Sherlock? Not the most original euphemism, is it?” he sighed. Sherlock wanted to tell him it was lucky Mycroft had restrained him, “I can’t say I’m surprised. Although, I am impressed. Where have you been hiding her for four years?” Mycroft shot him a twisted smile, “Your closet? Beneath your bed?” Sherlock was pleased that both he and the Woman were united in maintaining a dignified and determined silence. Mycroft continued his monologue, “Although, I suppose it hardly matters now. Take her away for questioning.”

Sherlock moved so fast he was barely a witness to his own actions. Still with his hands tied behind his back, he kicked out the legs from beneath the two government suits behind him, threw himself to his feet and hurled himself into Mycroft. Using his shoulder, Sherlock pinned him against the wall. Mycroft’s laughter had a hint of a groan as Sherlock glared him down on the staircase of 221b,

“It is unwise to disgust me at this extremely delicate time, brother mine.” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. From the corner of his eye, he could see the two remaining men pull Irene roughly to her feet. Though, she seemed barely be able to stand, “Let her go,” Sherlock breathed. Mycroft waved a hand in the direction of Miss Adler,

“Don’t just stand there. Take her away!”

Sherlock kicked Mycroft’s shin so that he momentarily doubled over, “If one more of your men lays a finger on her, know that the fact my hands are tied behind my back will only make your suffering more creative on my part, Mycroft.” All Sherlock could hear was his heart slamming against his ribcage.

“Do you have any idea how this looks, Sherlock?” Mycroft hissed back urgently, straightening himself up, “Moriarty back from the dead and now her. Do you not remember how Jim Moriarty worked tirelessly to singlehandedly destroy your reputation? Please, don’t tell me you’ve become so,” he paused to roll the word around his tongue, “sentimental that you’re doing his work for him.”

The urge to hit his brother rose up in Sherlock like wild-fire. His very skin felt so hot, a part of him was surprised it didn’t melt the plastic of the bonds preventing him from doing so as he stood there and glared at his brother.

“Sherlock, what’s going-oh-!” John had joined them in the narrow corridor. His eyes darting over the scene, “Mycroft- what the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

“Hello. Dr Watson.” Irene said vaguely. She sounded breathless. John blinked at her before returning his attention to Sherlock and Mycroft on the stairs. At that moment, Mrs Hudson poked her head out from the door to her flat,

“Mycroft Holmes, what do you think you’re doing, arresting your brother at this hour? You’ll wake the baby!”

Sherlock shot her a menacing glance which she only frowned at.

“Go inside, Mrs Hudson” John said, before Sherlock could snap at her, “I’ll be in to grab Ella in a munute, okay? Everything is fine. Just go.” He added before she could protest. Sherlock turned back to look at his brother.

“If you think,” Sherlock breathed through gritted teeth, “that Moriarty’s survival is as much my doing as Miss Adler’s, your deduction skills have reached their lowest point, brother.”

“She worked for Moriarty once. What makes you think she isn’t now?” sneered Mycroft.

“The fact that I am not an idiot and neither is Miss Adler.” Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Love makes men fools.”

Sherlock felt his eye twitch, “How would you know?” he snarled back.

“Oh, watch out boys.” Irene managed. Sherlock frowned at her for a moment before Mary joined Sherlock at his side, pressing a gun to Mycroft’s head.

“Sherlock, do you know how easy it is to climb your fire escape?” she called over her shoulder before returning her attentions to Mycroft, “Let them go, Mr Holmes.” she said.

Mycroft laughed, “Or what, Mrs Watson, you’ll shoot me?”

Mary shrugged at him before responding, “I’d prefer not to, but everyone here knows I have a slight tendency to shoot the Holmes boys.”

Mycroft frowned, confused by the comment. Mary winked at Sherlock, who would have smiled had it not been for the fact that from the corner of his eye he saw Irene sway dangerously. Despite steadying herself, Sherlock could see it was not without momentous effort. He was surprised his ribs did not shatter from the slamming of his heart against them, “Let them go.” Mary repeated.

“Thank you, Mrs Watson.” Irene breathed. Mary and Miss Adler exchanged a glance that made Sherlock furrow his brow. His eyes darting between them before he returned to staring down at his bother.

“For God’s sake, Mycroft don’t be an idiot!” John shouted.

Sherlock’s eyes watched Mycroft’s sweep over Sherlock, the barrel of the gun being pointed at his head by Mary, Miss Adler, almost being supported by the two men that were gripping her shoulders, John standing beside her and, finally, back to Sherlock. He let out a prolonged sigh,

“Do you understand the position you put yourself in, Sherlock?”

“Right here. Between you and Miss Adler.”

Mycroft chuckled at him, “All this for a dominatrix?”

“No. Not a dominatrix. The Woman.” Sherlock held his brother’s glare for a long moment. Feeling every pair of eyes in the room upon him. Suddenly thankful for his anger to blame for the flush of heat that rushed to his cheeks.

“Whatever information she is feeding you on Moriarty, little brother. I hope for all our sakes you are not so distracted that you can’t do what will be necessary.”

“Get out.” Sherlock said, “Take your thugs with you. If I so much as hear your voice in my vicinity in the next three days, you’ll be hunting Moriarty alone.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him before he waved his hand lazily at the men, “Release her.”

Sherlock heard her sharp intake of breath as the two men cut the bonds from her arms and left with the other two. Their footsteps stirring up the dust on the carpet as they departed. Mycroft undid Sherlock’s bonds. Only then did Mary take the gun away from Mycroft’s head. He straightened his jacket,

“Be careful, Sherlock.” He said with air of a tired righteous parent telling off their delinquent child, “You do remember what happened the last time you didn’t listen to me regarding Miss Adler.”

Sherlock said nothing, feeling his stomach twist.

“There is a rumour among the intelligence community that Sebastian Moran is in London.” Mycroft drawled, “But she couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that.”

Sherlock glowered at him as Irene crumpled to the floor. Sherlock watched, seemingly in slow motion, as John rushed to grab her before she hit the ground.

“Easy, easy. She’s still breathing. I think she’s just passed out.” John muttered, supporting her waist so she was half off the floor. Sherlock didn’t even remember moving to crouch at her other side. His hand hovered instinctively over her forehead for a moment, but he retracted italmost instantly when he saw his brother’s amused expression from the edge of his vision.

“Get her upstairs.” Sherlock ordered, looking up from Miss Adler at John. John nodded as Mary came over to support Irene on her other side. Together they half carried her up the stairs to the flat. Leaving Sherlock alone with his brother.

“Don’t think of it as an arrest. Think of it as protective custody for her.” Mycroft suggested. Sherlock turned away from the place where John and Mary had disappeared with Miss Adler to glare at his older brother’s smugly twisted smile.

“Irene Adler’s protection is not your concern.” He said, “Now, get out.” And without another word to his brother, Sherlock turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time up to his apartment. His stomach clenching more and more with every step he took towards her.

***

From an empty attic above an abandoned shop adjacent to Speedy’s café, Sebastian Moran watched, with amusement at first, at the sight of the big bad Mycroft Holmes walking out of Baker Street. He looked frazzled, worn, even worried. The four suited men that served as his protection waited on the footpath. One of them sporting a bloody nose from the scuffle that must have occurred within.

Adjusting the focus of his detached scope, Sebastian scanned the empty doorway of 221b and frowned when a dottery old woman closed it behind them all. He sucked in a breath through his nostrils, pulled out the disposable phone from the inside picket of his filthy leather jacket and punched the speed dial. Through his scope, Sebastian saw Mycroft Holmes look down at his phone with bemusement before answering,

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“I gave you an instruction.” He saw Mycroft frown at the sound of his voice.

“You gave an anonymous tip off. Though,” Mycroft sighed, “It’s hardly anonymous when I know who you are, Moran.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me, Mr ‘Olmes?”

“No. Just warn you. Stay away from my brother.”

Sebastian made a tutting noise, “Oh, Mr ‘Olmes, ain’t it obvious?”

“Enlighten me.”

“I ain’t after Sherlock Holmes.” he said, clenching and unclenching his fist at his side, “She’s just put him in my way.” And before Mycroft Holmes could utter a retort, Sebastian had crushed the phone beneath his boot. The cracking sound of the plastic making him grin as he pushed his straggled hair off his face and continued to watch the figures bustle around the apartment of 221b through his scope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock is all about protectiveness (one of the reasons why I love it so much). Everyone’s got people they wanna protect. Sherlock wants to protect Irene, Mycroft wants to protect Sherlock, John wants to protect Sherlock, Sherlock wants to protect Mary and John etc everyone is basically protective of everyone even when they shouldn’t be and its soooo delicious.  
> I adore the women of this show, they’re so dynamic, I hardly feel I do them justice. I think Mary and Irene would both get along swimmingly like 70% of the time cos they’re both badass morally ambiguous criminals hella protective of themselves and the people they care about. The other 30% when they don’t get along is for the same reason that they do. I don’t think they’d be best pals. More just understanding of one another. Thanks, xox.


	5. The Destruction Of Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for Sebastian Moran continues and, as Irene Adler's injuries become more and more obvious, John Watson's concern for his best friend and the Woman can't help but deepen. But, with 2 days remaining before Moran kills his next target, what will the contents of Miss Adler's mysterious flash drive reveal?

After she had fainted, it had taken John Watson a good few minutes to clear a surface to place a barely conscious Irene Adler down on in 221b. Eventually Mary had cleared one of the kitchen chairs of papers (his and Sherlock’s arm chairs were piled high with God Knows What information, leads, chatter, etc. on Jim Moriarty) before they gently sat her down, destroying more than a few tangles of Sherlock’s so called ‘web’ as they did. Though, despite how careful they were, Irene let out a yelp of pain as they lowered her into the chair. John frowned at her, glancing at Mary whose face was a reflection of his concern.

Irene was slumped forward, propping her head on her gloved hand. Indolently wiping beads of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. Some of the colour had returned to her face when she had sat down, but she was still ghoulish, John thought. Listening to her jagged breaths. He knelt in front of her so that their faces were level,

“Miss Adler, you’ve fainted because I believe you have severe dehydration.” He said clearly.

“You don’t say.” Irene croaked, not without sarcasm as she closed her eyes. John guessed from the green tinge reflected on her skin that she felt dizzy. At that moment, Mary appeared with a glass of water,

“Here,” she said softly, placing it on the table in front of Miss Adler, but her eyes were still closed against her vertigo.

“Miss Adler?” John’s voice was gentle.

It was such a long moment before she responded that John exchanged a ‘should I prod her?’ look with Mary. His stomach churning as he began wondering what Sherlock was saying to Mycroft downstairs.

“Why do you think I’m here, Dr Watson?"

John blinked at Irene Adler as she opened her eyes to focus on him, her body still drooping in the chair. There was a long pause as he stared at her expectant, albeit exhausted, glare.

“You gave Sherlock a case. You’re a client, that’s how he operates.”

Irene’s chuckle rattled in her throat, “But why do you think I’m here?” she repeated. John stood up so she was looking up at him.

“I think you need Sherlock to find Sebastian Moran and you don’t want him to find out why.”

“Perceptive as ever, Dr Watson.” She drawled, her voice hoarse. John kneeled down so they were at eye level once more. Trying to keep his voice calm.

“Look,” he whispered, “you don’t see him when you’re not around-”

“Your perceptiveness continues-”

“Listen-” He started. Irene looked up at him. When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “He lost you once and he was-” John broke off, “And then you came back and he just-“

“What?” Irene snapped.

“This morning Sherlock thought you might be dead.”

“I know. I was there.” She said expressionlessly. John frowned at her. Having momentarily forgotten Miss Adler had appeared in Baker Street’s lounge room and presented Sherlock with the red flash drive only this morning. _Had it really only been that morning?_

“Then, do us all a favour,” John sighed, “Including yourself,” he gestured towards the glass, “Drink up.”

“You’d do well to follow the good doctor’s advice, Miss Adler.” Both John and Mary jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. From the corner of his eye, John saw Irene Adler grimace as she forced herself to sit up straight in the chair.

“Er, Sherlock?” John stepped forward, blocking Sherlock’s direct path to Miss Adler’s seat, “Can I talk to you for a minute, mate?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before he tore them away from Irene’s direction to meet with John’s,

“I don’t know,” he said irritably, “Can you?”

“Landing, now.” John saw Sherlock look over at Mary who was sitting at the kitchen table in the chair opposite Irene Adler.

“Go on, Sherlock.” She encouraged,

“You both do realize you have an actual child to take care of.” He shot at them as he tuned on his heel and headed out the door, John close on his heels. Outside, when John turned to face him on the landing outside 221b’s open door, he was sporting the exasperated look of an eight year old who had been called to the principal’s office. Complete with raised eyebrow and folded arms,

“Sherlock, be careful.” John said, finally. Sherlock looked insulted,

“I’m sorry?”

“Something is seriously wrong with her, Sherlock.” John knew he’d struck a nerve when Sherlock unfolded his arms. He quickly corrected himself, “I mean physically, mate. She’s got every symptom of severe dehydration and malnutrition. Not to mention she’s quite clearly in a lot of pain.”

Sherlock dragged a few fingers through his curls before taking a step towards him.

“You think I haven't noticed?” Sherlock hissed at him through clenched teeth, running a hand over his face. As John watched, he went stiff. His odd look of manic indifference washed over his face.

“Sher-?”

“I didn’t notice, John.” His voice was almost a jeer as he pushed passed John to head back into the apartment,

“Shit-” John muttered before following Sherlock back inside.

“How could I notice, John?” Sherlock announced, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he bounded over to where Irene was sitting at the kitchen table, “When Miss Adler has done such,” he shot the word in Miss Adler’s direction, “an excellent job of hiding her injuries.” Sherlock laughed, but John was sure he’d never heard a less humorous noise in his entire lifetime, “I mean, the clothes are very flattering and clearly recently purchased, Miss Adler. But did you really think they would cover the- oooh,” John watched Sherlock’s eyes slide over her, “10? 11? Pounds you’ve very recently lost? Drastically, I’d say, judging from your skin.”

“Sherlock-” Mary’s voice was wary.

“And while we’re on the subject of clothes. Let’s talk about those gloves,” Sherlock was glaring at her now, “Tell me, Miss Adler, are you really so dedicated to fashion that you’re willing to swelter through 30 degrees Celsius? Or is it another pitiful,” he nearly spat the word, “attempt to hide your injuries from me?”

Irene was glaring at him.

“Sherlock! That’s enough-!” John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock’s growl cut him off,

“And there’s the avoidance behaviour,” Sherlock was relentless, “You were so distressed when I insisted on you taking a cab with me to Bart’s and practically leaped at the opportunity to get a lift from Mary back to here.” Irene stood up to match his glare, “Oh,” Sherlock sneered at her, “and let’s not forget the gun covered in blood that seems to be the only thing you brought with you.” Irene took a step towards him. They held each other’s gaze for so long John had the urge to step between them when,

“Moran is going to kill someone in 2 days. I hope you’re finished, Mr Holmes, because you’re wasting time.”

“Oh, am I?”

“I asked you to find Sebastian-”

“Sebastian?” Sherlock repeated, Irene scowled at him,

“Or are you too distracted by my weight and fashion choices to manage that?” she snapped. Sherlock took a step back from her,

“No.” They glared at each other for what felt like an eternity until,

“637583,” she said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, “That’s the passcode you need to access the files on the flash drive. Have fun. I’ll be taking a bath. So if you feel the,” she rolled the word off her tongue, “unbearable need to speak to me. Don’t.” and with that she turned on her heel,

“Wait.” Sherlock said. John watched Irene turned to face Sherlock, her eyes flashing, “If you insist on destroying yourself in a pointless effort to hide the truth from me, at least take the glass of water with you. Apparently, I don’t have time for you passing out and drowning in my bathtub.” Stated Sherlock. It was a moment before Irene walked over and grabbed the glass off the table. Disappearing moments later behind the closed door of 221b’s bathroom. Mary, Sherlock and John all stood in silence for a moment. The residual tension left in the air between Sherlock and where Miss Adler had left the room left a ringing in John’s ears that seemed to reverberate against his skin.

But, at that moment, John’s phone buzzed in his pocket. With a sigh of relief, he left the room. Ducking out the door onto the landing of the staircase before pressing the phone to his ear,

“Hello?”

“Hello, John.” Drawled Mycroft, “Is Sherlock there?”

“Well, yeah,” John retorted, “he lives here.” John could practically hear Mycroft’s eyes roll before he spoke,

“I meant, can he hear this conversation?”

“Not if you make it fast.” John heard Mycroft sigh before he continued.

“Look, I am very busy over the next few days. I have to co-ordinate a meeting of a collection rather important national figures, which may or may not include the prime minister and I don’t have time to worry about my little brother’s shenanigans with ex fugitive sex workers. So I’ve stationed a few of my personal security agents in the vicinity of Baker Street.”

“Yes, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to learn that you’ve done that for him.” John muttered.

“That’s why I am telling you. He’s less likely to become _completely_ murderous, if you’re the one to tell him.”

“I thought you didn’t trust your secret service.” John thought aloud,

“I don’t.”

“Then, why are you-?”

“Desperate times, John?” Mycroft offered.

“Goodbye, Mycroft” John hung up the phone before returning to the apartment and joining Mary at her side. She was looking over Sherlock’s shoulder. He was bent over a laptop at his desk, his face inches from the screen. Looking, John saw Irene Adler’s flash drive plugged into the USB port,

“So, she gave us the correct passcode for her gear for once, then?” He said.

“It would seem so. Though, given that fact, I highly doubt that this is hers.” Sherlock said without looking around at him, “Was that, Mycroft?” he barked,

“Mmm hmmm, said to tell you he’s busy and that he’s left his thugs around to guard the place.”

“Terrific. I feel safer already.” Sherlock muttered darkly. Scrolling through the files being listed on the laptop. From what John could see, there were lots of different types of files. Some were just labelled with numbers (dates?). Others were video files that seemed to be labeled with a 4 digit succession of numbers,

“Area codes.” Said Mary,

“Mm” agreed Sherlock as he opened one of them. The video that played was CCTV footage of sleek black Audi model car that had no licence plates. Sherlock clicked out of it and went to the next video file and the next and the next. Soon enough it seemed clear that it was just footage of this car in various parts of London.

“Moran must collect and replace CCTV footage of his car.” Sherlock frowned.

“How on earth would he manage that?” John asked.

“Moran is more resourceful than you can possibly imagine.” John and Sherlock both looked at Mary who was still looking at the information on the laptop screen, frowning, “Belgravia-” She said suddenly.

“What?”

“That area code.” She pointed to the number at the bottom of the footage of Moran’s car that Sherlock had just opened, “It’s near Belgravia.” John saw Sherlock stiffen, “Isn’t that the suburb you said Miss Adler lived in?”

“Used to live in.” Sherlock corrected her.

“Yeah. But that would have been 5 years ago, Mary. She said this flash drive only contained Intel from the last two years.” Replied John.

“But that date is 2010, 5 years ago.” Mary pointed at the date at the bottom of the footage. John frowned at the screen,

“That’s-?” John squinted as he cast his memory back, “about a year? Maybe 10 months before we met her.”

“If the date’s right.” Said Mary hopefully. John had a feeling it was for Sherlock’s benefit,

“But why would she lie about the information on here and give us the passcode?’ John mused, leaning over Sherlock to look at the footage.

He may have been imagining it, but as he snatched a sideways glance at Sherlock’s face, John could’ve sworn Sherlock’s eyes were shining in the light emanating from the screen. His face seemed to turn to stone. It was a look that John Watson had only seen on his best friend’s face once before. It was the same look that had drowned his features when Magnussen had showed them the truth about the Appledore vaults.  

John Watson had always known his best friend to delight in gaining knowledge. To get off on learning something (anything) new he deemed to be fascinating enough. But as Sherlock stared at the footage of Moran getting out of his black Audi in Belgravia, John knew that this was one of the rare occasions that Sherlock Holmes despaired in the knowledge he had gained. If there was one thing that John Watson had learnt from his time with Sherlock Holmes, it was that knowledge itself was not harmful. But knowledge of people can be more destructive than any weapon.

“Because she didn’t know what was on here.” Sherlock finally said. John thought his voice sounded thick. He glanced at Mary whose eyes were wide.

“Sherlock, that means he was following her- Moran, he,” John clenched and unclenched his side as Mary cautiously continued, “Moran knows her.” John and Mary jumped back from the desk as Sherlock snapped the laptop lid down so fast it was almost a slam.

“Sherlock?” John approached him, but Sherlock stood up. His hands moving quickly to button up his suit jacket. He must have removed his coat while John had been on the phone to Mycroft.

“Sherlock. I’m sorry.” Mary said, her voice almost shaking, “But no one walks around with this amount of data on Moran. No one can. No one would unless-"

“Miss Adler is not no one.” Sherlock stated, “Not, it seems, to Sebastian Moran.” The way he said those last few words, John thought. Acidic and bitter- but burning. As if they were born off the embers of a fire raging in the back of his throat that he was desperately trying to suppress.

“Am I interrupting something?” Mrs Hudson’s voice broke through their conversation like a bell chime in an empty schoolyard.  Quickly followed by baby Ella’s shrieks of incoherent delight at seeing her parents. John turned away from Sherlock to see her bouncing in Mrs Hudsons’ arms. Despite the gravity of events that had just occurred, John Watson’s face couldn’t help but melt into a smile at the sight of his daughter and the sound of her tiny voice.

“No.” Sherlock piped up, though John could see the vein in his temple, “They were just leaving.”

“She’s been asleep all day.” Mrs Hudson chirped as she handed Ella to John. Who adjusted her so her head was resting on the crook of his shoulder, “Even with all that racket Mycroft made this afternoon. Are you alright, Sherlock dear? It all looked very serious.”

“I’m fine, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock groaned.

“Your friend, is she okay? I saw her collapse and John take her up-“

“Mrs Hudson, what have I told you about eavesdropping?”

“Hardly eavesdropping when you’re shouting outside my flat, dear. You didn’t sound very pleased that your brother was trying to arrest her.”

John watched Sherlock squeeze his eyes shut and was about to intervene when Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together, “So, where is she?” she asked in a delighted whisper,

“Mrs Hudson, she’s not awake yet.” John quickly lied. Desperate to save Mrs Hudson from Sherlock’s wrath.

“Oh, okay, poor dear,” her voice was a mixture of concern and disappointment. But then she perked up, “Do you want me to bring up some nibbles for her later?” she asked, “You hardly have anything decent in that fridge apart from eyeballs and-”

John knew Sherlock had cracked.

“What I need,” Sherlock breathed, though his voice was slowly rising, “is for everyone to please leave this apartment. I am very busy.”

“Come on, love.” Mary cooed to John, reaching over to stroke Ella’s back, “We better get this one home to bed,” John nodded, but he was still staring at Sherlock, unable to help but notice Sherlock’s eyes dart to the bathroom where Irene Adler was.

“Yeah, coming,” he carefully detached himself from Ella and handed her to Mary, “I’ll meet you in the car in a minute, okay?”  Mary nodded, gave his hand a squeeze and headed out of 221b with Ella.

“Oooh, I think Ella’s pacifier is still on my kitchen table!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. Dashing after Mary with Sherlock glaring after her. John waited until she had left the room, but before he could say anything-

“No. I don’t need you. I am fine." Sherlock said, "And, if it will stop you from persisting to offer me your help, I will call you when Molly gets back to me about the blood test results on Moran’s gun.”

John puffed air from his cheeks. Rubbing the back of his neck with his hands, “Right then, okay.” He resigned. Turning to head out the door,

“Is it your default setting, John?”

John stopped and spun around, “Wha-?”

“Do you just call my brother when I do anything you don’t deem ‘usual’? ‘Oh, look Sherlock’s sad better call Mycroft,’” Sherlock had bunged on the unflattering high pitched squeak he bore when imitating John. John was just gaping at him, “'Oh, look Sherlock took some narcotics for a case! Better call Mycroft, Oh, and look! Irene Adler is back from the dead, better call Mycroft because that’s clearly what Sherlock needs right now’. What’s next? You’re going to call him when I take a shi-”

“I didn’t call him, Sherlock!” John lowered his voice, “Not this time, I swear to God. I wouldn’t do that to you. You think I didn’t know how that would make you look?” Sherlock blinked at him as John continued, “No, Sherlock. I was just as shocked as you were when I saw him here.”

“Somebody told him-”

“Well, it wasn’t me, alright? And it wasn’t Mary either-”

“Of course it wasn’t Mary.” Sherlock retorted.

“Look, Sherlock. None of us would have done that to you, or Miss Adler, for that matter. You know that. Not after everything you’ve done to protec-”

Sherlock shot John a glare and John decided it best not to finish that sentence. Sherlock began to busy himself with clearing some of the papers from his desk. Sighing, John turned to the door and had one foot out when,

“John-?”

John turned back to look at his best friend, “Yes?” he said, his voice a little more irritable than he expected, “Sherlock?”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said rather forcefully, “Both you and Mary-” he managed, “for” he took a deep breath, “taking care of Miss Adler when she-”

John waved away Sherlock’s thanks. Partly because he thought it unnecessary, but mostly because Sherlock looked like he was going to combust,

“Be careful.” John said, sighing, “Please, Sherlock, be careful.”

***

Miss Adler had been taking a bath for a good two hours by the time Mrs Hudson returned armed with an antipasto tray. Sherlock rolled his eyes, doing his best to completely ignore Mrs Hudson’s obvious attempts to stall her exit in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the Woman. He tried to focus on the natter of the television. The news woman was prattling on about the national leaders conference his brother would no doubt be co-coordinating. But, if Sherlock was honest with himself, he had to admit even he was wondering when (if?) Miss Adler was ever going to venture out of his bathroom. _Had she passed out in there?_ A disgustingly concerned voice echoed in the back of his brain,

“Is this the woman you wrote all that lovely music for?”

“What-?” Sherlock felt sick. He stared pointedly at the laptop screen on his desk displaying data from the flash drive, “No- It wasn’t _for-_ If I compose anything Mrs Hudson, it is for myself and myself, alone. Now, please I am very busy.” His voice was bordering on pleading,

“Aren’t you worried she’s not awake yet?”

“NO, OUT!”

Mrs Hudson jumped and scuttled to the door, “I hope you’re not this rude to her Sherlock Holmes!” She shouted from the stairwell as Sherlock got up and slammed the door shut behind her. After he locked it, he leaned on the closed door for a moment. Closing his eyes, he listened to his breath as it passed sharply through his nose. The sound was punctuated by the growling of his stomach and drew his attention to the fact that he hadn’t eaten in at least 18 hours. Reaching up, he dragged a hand through his curls. It came back greasy on his finger tips and it occurred to him that he could recall every piece of information on that flash drive, but not recall the last time he washed his hair.

Sherlock unhitched himself from the doorway and headed cautiously towards the closed bathroom door. Shifting his weight quickly from side to side. The rhythm matching the hammering of his heart as he raised his hand to tap on the door. It hovered there for a moment and he was about to knock when the door opened, revealing a bemused looking Miss Adler staring up at him. Her large eyes narrowed into a smirk.

“Been standing there long?” She asked. His answer seemed to trip off his tongue as he dropped his hands back behind back,

“No- I wasn’t-“ Sherlock blinked at her before he felt his eyes pull away from her face to slide over the rest of her. 

The smell of his own shampoo washed over him. Her hair was still wet from the bath, a few droplets falling from the ends of her hair to close the few inches of space between it and her shoulder blade. The residual heat from the bath radiated from her skin into the small space between them and Sherlock realized that she had clad herself in his scarlet dressing gown he had left in the bathroom yesterday morning.

A strange feeling of Déjà vu twisted his stomach. His chest felt like it was pounding. For a wild moment, he was frightened Miss Adler could hear his heart. It was loud enough in his ears, after all. But, as Sherlock dragged his eyes back up to hers, he felt the hunger for food that had been so prominent in his stomach moments ago being replaced by a different kind. Sherlock shook his head and let out a breath he didn’t notice he had been holding and cleared his throat. Irene looked amused.

“I keep hearing about your composing-” She started. Sherlock found his voice, cutting across her as quickly as he could,

“Mrs Hudson has provided us-”

“Us?” she echoed playfully.

“Provided food.” Sherlock continued, the heat radiating from her felt as if it were sinking into his cheeks,

“I see. Does she often provide you with food?”

“No.” Sherlock lied. Irene raised an eyebrow at him, “I do recommend you eat.”

“Do you?” she said. Her voice alight with apparent interest, “and what about you?”

“I’m not hungry.” He replied. She looked away from him and sighed over dramatically. Though, underneath it, there seemed to be a chuckle,

“Some things never change, Mr Holmes.” She sighed, “But if you insist on destroying yourself.” And with that she brushed passed him and headed down the hall to Baker Street’s living room. Sherlock observing that she was still wearing the leather gloves.

“Oh, Mr Holmes?” Sherlock looked up at her as she turned back to look at him, “Any luck with the flash drive?” she asked. Sherlock felt his eye twitch as he held her gaze. The image of Moran’s black Audi in Belgravia’s area code flickering across his vision. He watched her expectant face for a moment before,

“No.” he shook his head at her, “No luck.” 

***

It was almost 8pm when Molly Hooper left St Bart’s Hospital. Technically, she’d clocked off at six. But she had stayed back to finish off Miss Adler’s blood analysis and the DNA test on the gun that Sherlock had given her. He had seemed so desperate, so worried, that despite her own suspicions of Irene Adler, Molly had done it all as quickly as she could. Though, the blood on the gun was too old to extract any concrete DNA (if Sherlock wanted a definite match she would need fresh DNA to fill in the missing genetic markers). Plus, if she was honest with herself, she couldn’t help feeling concerned for Irene Adler. She had seemed so sad, not to mention unwell. Molly thought she’d looked close enough to fainting when she met her earlier that day.

Of course, she had text the results of the tests to Sherlock as she had left the building. But as she walked around the back of St Bart’s hospital to the staff car park, wondering whether or not she should text Sherlock about Irene when a solid force collided with her arm, nearly knocking her to the ground,

“Oh sorry, love!” the man said. Catching her arm and ensuring she remained upright, “You alright?”

Molly fought to regain her balance. Hitching her bag back onto her shoulder and straightening herself up,

“Oh, gosh- Yeah, sorry!” she squeaked,

“Yeah, sorry- wasn’t watching where I was goin’- long day, you know?” the man pushed his mop of hair from his face, “Anyway, you have a good evenin’”

“You too” Molly replied clumsily as she watched the man walk back to his car from the corner of her eye, before walking the last few feet to her car. _Strange_ , she mused to herself, _she had never seen a black Audi like that parked around here before_.

\----------------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, bbys. I'm sorry this chapter took so long to update. I had final uni assessments and my best friend's mum died. Anyway, I have this idea that John and Mycroft's relationship is colder in the post hlv period because I think John would blame him in part on not being able to get him off Magnussen's murder. Also, I can't really stress how important baby watson is to me (and to John) and the Mrs Hudson/Holmes relationship is probably my favorite thing. Is anyone else pumped for Martin Freeman hosting SNL?  
> Questions? letzplaymurder.tumblr.com


	6. The Value Of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is ticking down until Sebastian Moran terminates his next target and Irene Adler knows that Sherlock is no closer to finding him or his mark. Even with a flash drive full of his personal information. But how did she get it? Why is she so desperate for Sherlock to find him? And will Sebastian Moran find her first?

Irene Adler watched, mesmerized as always, at the collection of contradictions that made up the man that is Sherlock Holmes. It boarded on entertaining, really. The way he avoided looking directly at her, but Irene knew she was a constant presence in the corner of his eye. Occasionally, his pride forgotten, she would catch him nearly gaping at her. That was always fun. To see how he would brush it off. The same way he would  refuse to allow himself to touch her. Yet he never allowed her to stray far from his reach. Irene was used to the gazes of infatuated men, of course. But, for reasons she’d never admit freely, she had always found immense satisfaction in the gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

“Mr Holmes?” 

“Mm” he didn’t look up from his laptop. But his whole being seemed to twitch at the sound of her voice.

“Why is it that the only thing you have in your fridge is a collection of pinkie toes labelled ‘Christmas’?” Irene was genuinely curious. But she was admittedly just still hungry. The antipasto platter Mrs Hudson had provided had been rather filling. Especially with Sherlock’s refusal to share. But that was five hours ago and her flashbacks had hardly allowed her rest.

“Why?” he responded.

“Because I’m not a cannibal. Are you?” 

“Not tonight.” He muttered. Irene rolled her eyes at the response, “If you’re still hungry, Miss Adler.” He sighed, “Then you’ll have to wait until daylight. As you’ll recall, I’m quite busy with 24 hours until Moran kills his next target and we still don’t know who it is.”

Irene folded her arms. Her eyes darting over him as she did so. His eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion and the reflection of the light from the laptop screen on his steeply planed face only deepened the shadows beneath them,

“When was the last time you slept?” The words tumbled out off her lips. Sherlock looked up at her. His tired eyes fixing on hers. _God, did her heart seriously just skip?_

“When did you?” He stood up.

“I wasn’t talking about me.” She said evenly.

“No. But I am.” He  walked slowly towards her, “How do you know?”

“Know what?” Irene raised an eyebrow at him,

“That Sebastian Moran’s assassination job is tomorrow. You keep saying that. But there is nothing on the flash drive that indicates it. So, how do you know?” Sherlock watched her, his eyes unblinking and expectant. Irene fought the urge to blink or step back from him,

“I believe I asked you a question first, Mr Holmes.” She kept her voice level. His glare was so intense it felt almost like a weight on her chest,

“You’re really not going to tell me.” He said it like a statement. Holding her gaze for a minute longer before stepping back from her and sighing. In that moment, he really looked tired. The kind of tired that Irene knew he felt in his bones,

“You told me, remember?” she retorted.  _Now,_ she thought, _I’m really going to do this now?_ “You said not to contact you under any circumstances-” at that, Sherlock rounded on her,

“But you’re here!” he shouted. Dragging a hand down his face and lowering his voice, “You’re here so just tell me.”

“I have told you.”

“You’ve given me a reason. Not the truth.” He hissed at her, closing the space between them. To her surprise she chuckled,

“All that rage, Mr Holmes.” She kept her voice deadly, “Yet, when you were dead, I don’t believe I was graced with your correspondence.” Irene watched Sherlock press his lips together,

“That was different.” His voice perched on shaking,

“Enlighten me.” She breathed. For a fraction of a moment, he stood there opening and closing his mouth, lost for words until,

“Maybe I should have just turned up - asleep in your bed-” he threw his words at her like daggers, “assumed you would protect me-”

“Maybe you should have.” She snapped. Sherlock’s look was incredulous. Almost disgusted,

“You cannot think that I would have compromised your cover like that- for a social visit-?!”

“Of course not, Mr Holmes!” Irene shot back, “But I’d have thought that _you_  wouldn't have assumed that John Watson was the only person who thought you were dead for two years!” _That was it. She’d said it now._ The nausea clenched her stomach muscles before she even saw Sherlock’s body stiffen and take a step back from her. Tilting his head up in a righteous glare,

“Do you want me to apologize? For not telling you I was alive when I was? For letting you feel guilt and grief and loss for nothing? Why should I?” he stepped forward until he was so close she could feel the breath of his hiss of his next words on her cheeks, “You never did.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She breathed back, not breaking eye contact, “I don’t want your apology, but I don’t deserve your anger for following your own instructions.” At this, Sherlock gaped at her. As if her words were a blow that had struck his very soul. It was then that she heard him whispering,

“Angry? You think I’m-” He broke off. Disbelief drowned every inch of his features. Looking away from her, even his skin paled so that his face seemed like a despairing ghostly shadow of its former. He kept whispering incoherently, almost seeming catatonic. Irene took a step back from him. The movement seemed to bring him back to earth, as if he was waking from a nightmare. “Angry,” he repeated, starting to chuckle like a madman as he dragged both his hands down his face, as if he hoped the action would tear the thoughts away from his mind, “I am terrified, Miss Adler.” He mumbled, almost hopelessly. His eyes fixed on hers again, “Because you’re right,” he began to gravitate back towards her, “You did what I asked. I heard nothing from you for nearly four years. Clearly, you didn’t need my help. Not that you ever wanted it.” He had reached her now and there was barely a slither of air between them. Sherlock’s voice was so low it was nearly a desperate purr,

“So imagine how _terrifying_ it is when you turn up at my door with a flash drive full of detailed personal information on the second most dangerous man in the Northern Hemisphere – a man you insist on giving me no other option but to find – all the while as you attempt to conceal obvious recent physical trauma.” He sighed into the air between them so that it disturbed a few strands of Irene’s hair, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, “When I saved your life I asked you to do me the simple kindness of keeping it safe.” He continued. She felt his fingers absently intertwine with her gloved hand at her side. _Was it absent?_   She didn’t move, but heard her own sharp exhale of breath at his touch. As if her body found relief in the act,

“Was four years,” he whispered in her ear. Irene felt a part of her mind flicker back to Mycroft Holmes’ office, accompanied by an unsettling sense of Déjà vu, “enough for you to misunderstand my feelings regarding the safety of your life?” He pulled back to look at her,

“Do you understand them?” she whispered, so quietly that he might not have heard. But the fear in her voice may as well have been a scream in her ears. Sherlock said nothing, but Irene swore for a moment that his head swayed slightly. As if he was going to press his forehead against her own. Her eyes flickered to his lips and, for a moment that felt like an eternity, they both stood there. Breathing in the air that was the only thing between them. Sherlock’s fingers laced with her own at her side. Her heart racing, yhreatening to leap from her chest at the person who had stolen it so rudely. All of it, as if all they could ever be was a collection of almosts. Doomed to exist on the verge of asking each other a question they both feared they knew the answer to.

So Irene reached up and brushed her lips against his in a way of asking it.

Pulling away, she watched his eyes for a response- for an answer. For a moment, all she could see in them was her own. Wide eyed and dark in the dimly lit room. She had barely registered the way they flickered before he pressed his lips against hers. Consuming any possible doubt as to what the answer to her question could be.

And everything dissolved into an inky blackness where all that existed was one another’s touch.

Sherlock’s fingers travelling from her hand. Tracing up the top of her thighs, until both his hands fastened around her waist and pulled her against him, as if to pull her inside his skin. The way she felt herself shudder beneath his fingertips, maybe she wanted to be. Somewhere she heard a voice almost outside of her mind say this should hurt because of the bruises. _It shouldn’t be this easy,_ it said. But as her own hands moved from his face to wrap her arms around his neck to lift herself onto him, the voice faded away. _How could there be a voice when all she could do between his lips was gasp for air?_

When she did dare to part their lips, only for a moment to open her eyes and look at him, they were sitting. Their bodies a panting tangle of limbs as she straddled his thighs on Baker Street’s sofa. _She must have removed his jacket and shirt without realizing_. While his scarlet dressing gown she had been wearing hung limply off her shoulders as she felt his fingers continue to explore her body, tracing patterns in the arch of her back. Irene breathed out. _Did she really just giggle?_

“Perhaps you do understand, Mr Holmes.” She leaned forward to breathe into his lips, closing her eyes to kiss them again. Pressing her chest against his as she did, noting their hammering hearts were almost synchronized.

“Oh, believe me, Miss Adler,” Irene stopped dead. Every nerve in her body stiffening. _That wasn’t his voice._ Irene Adler had heard that voice. It was voice that had become shards of glass against her ears. A voice she never wanted to hear. Nausea clenched her stomach muscles again and, as if it was unavoidable, she pulled her lips away and opened her eyes to rest on the face of Sebastian Moran beneath her,

_“I understand perfectly” he drawled._

Irene Adler flung herself back into consciousness so violently that she hit the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom with a dull thud that echoed in her ears and reverberated through every cell of her body. She lay there for a moment. Listening to her jagged breathing slowly become more and more even. Allowing time for her brain to realize that the dull throbbing pain that her bruised ribs were now experiencing was due to the fact that the right side of her body had taken most of the fall. The next realization she experienced, as her heart rate finally slowed to something remotely human, was that the last thing she wanted was Sherlock to walk into his bedroom and find her a clammy mess, tangled in his sheets and dressing gown, on the floor.

It was such an odd feeling of otherness to be so encircled by the essence of someone and know they did not trust you there. To feel so detached from someone who you were surrounded by.

She sat up. The action sent her head into a spin. _Still dehydrated,_ she thought. Getting gingerly to her feet, she tossed the mangled sheets back onto Sherlock’s bed and checked her gloves were still covering her hands before venturing out to face him. Quite surprised that he hadn’t heard her rather over dramatic exit from sleep and hovered at the door to force himself not to ask her if she was alright.

Baker Street’s floorboards were cold beneath her feet and she thought she could feel a draft as she headed down 221b’s short corridor. But, seconds later, she was sure she had imagined it. The door to the apartment was closed and locked. Her eyes wondered over the door frame and its surrounds and she frowned when she saw a phone sitting on a small table near the door.

It had to be Sherlock’s. W _ho else’s?_   She looked around for him, but her eyes didn’t find him. Brow furrowed, she picked it up. There was a text message displayed on the lock screen from the night before,

_Her blood type matches the blood on the gun. Can’t be sure, though. Would need fresh DNA to match. Start work at 8 if you need to talk._

The text was from Miss Hooper. Irene’s heart gave in an involuntary skip at the content. But, judging from the 8:47am time, it was safe to assume Sherlock had gone to see Miss Hooper and left herself asleep. To her surprise the phone wasn’t passcode locked. She was about to put it down when,

“Good mornin’, sweetheart,”

Irene Adler spun around and very nearly dropped Sherlock’s phone, before her eyes landed on the sight of Sebastian Moran. Pushing his matted dark hair off his tanned forehead. Leaning back on one of Sherlock’s kitchen chairs with his filthy combat boots resting on the table. Fingers absently shuffling a deck of cards as a gleeful sneer twisted his unshaven features. His eyes, black like a shark’s, fixed on hers. Irene’s heart began slamming so violently against her bones it was almost painful.

***

Molly Hooper had never seen Sherlock so utterly exhausted. Well, Sherlock was always tired these days. Hunting Jim Moriarty relentlessly for months took its toll. But, standing before her in the lab wearing the same suit and shirt as the day before, her best guess was that it had probably been three days since even the thought of sleep had even danced across his brilliant brain. His usual statue like stillness had been replaced by a different kind. As if he was suspended in mid-air by a rope. Just hanging there. Waiting as he stared at something none of them could see. Molly tried not to think about a hangman’s noose,

“Is she okay, Sherlock?” she said softly. Sherlock looked up at her then as if he’d forgotten she was there, “Ire- Miss Adler,” Molly corrected herself, “she seemed a bit ill when she left yesterday, was she okay?” Sherlock’s eye twitched,

“Fine. Yes, she was fine.” He muttered distractedly. _Lying_. Molly couldn’t be sure, but she thought he mumbled ‘nightmares’ and she was on the verge of asking what he meant when Mary and John walked into the lab,

“Sorry, we’re late.” Mary said a little breathlessly, “Had to organize a sitter for Ella.”

“You alright, Sherlock?” John asked automatically. Sherlock didn’t answer. Just addressed Molly,

“What did you find on the gun, Molly?” he said in a voice Molly was sure he wished was expressionless,

“Okay,” she said, placing the bloody gun on the bench they were all gathered around, “the blood type and DNA I took from Miss Adler matched,” she saw Sherlock swallow, “But it’s messy-”

“Meaning?” Mary asked.

Molly blinked,“It’s barely there. Kind of like blue is in purple paint. But once you’ve mixed blue and red to be purple, you can’t see the blue.”

“There’s another lot of DNA on the gun.” said Sherlock.

Molly nodded at Sherlock’s statement. She tried to read him, but his face was empty, hollow.

“Is there enough you could use it as evidence? To incriminate someone?” It was John who spoke.

“I don’t know.” Molly admitted, frowning, “But regardless, you need to match up the other DNA that’s on it. Whoever it is.” Their three worried faces all looked back at her, equally hopeless and terrified, “What is this abo-?” Molly began. Sherlock stood up,

“Remind me. Why couldn’t you text this to me, Molly?” Sherlock was already standing up and wrapping his scarf around his neck. Molly was about to tell him she couldn’t find her phone when John’s rang out. Snapping all their heads towards him, Molly saw him frown at the screen,

“How can you be calling me, Sherlock? Phone ringing accidentally in your pocket or something?”

Sherlock had frozen to the spot, “Answer it.” He said, his voice tight. 

“What-?”

“ANSWER IT!”

John pressed his phone to his ear, confusion furrowing his brow only for a moment before his jaw dropped and, arm shaking ever so slightly, he handed it to Sherlock, “I think it’s for you.”

***

 “Unusual for you to wake up so late,” Moran mused. Ceasing the shuffling of his cards to reach into his pocket. Irene’s eyes flashed, but he simply drew out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Lighting it and taking a drag before he smiled at her and finished, “Nightmares?”

“Evidently, I’m still in one.” Her voice was steady. _Good_. Moran chuckled at her. It made her want to set him on fire,

“Want me to pinch you?” he said. Irene’s face contorted with disgust,

“I want you to leave.” She retorted. Moran almost laughed again. Sighing the smoke from his cigarette into the air in front of him. As he adjusted his feet, he kicked a few of Sherlock’s glasses and beakers off the table onto the floor,

“So disappointed to see me,” he sneered, “Why? Cause I ain’t Sherlock Holmes?” Irene felt her eye twitch involuntarily and Moran smiled, “Wonderin’ where he is, ain’t you, girl?” It was more of a threat than a question. Irene resisted the temptation to sigh,

“You’re an even bigger fool than I assumed if you’ve laid a finger on Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian.” She said, hitting speed dial on Sherlock’s phone behind her back.

 “Oh, yeah, right- as if I would kill him. As hard as it is to believe, sweetheart, I really ain’t interested in your little squeeze right now. Just the name really.” She frowned as he flicked his cigarette ashes in her direction, “You were right, though, when you said that if I wanted to find Jim, I shouldn’t kill Sherlock ‘Olmes out of revenge. I’ll give you that-”

“Incredible. You’re too kind,” she spat. Moran continued,

“But,” he sighed, “See, then you insulted my hospitality, Irene and well,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “you should know better than to steal when you’re a guest in someone’s ‘ouse.”

The hand that wasn’t holding Sherlock’s phone balled into a fist at her side. If it weren't for her gloves, her nails would be cutting into her palms.

“Forgive me,” she drawled, “But I’d hardly call four weeks of the dullest torture I’ve ever had the displeasure of enduring ‘hospitality’”

Moran glanced down at her hands and she moved to stand in front of him in an effort to avoid any chance of him sighting the phone behind her back, “And to think, Miss Adler, I used to pay you to torture me.”

“Well, I would charge you for your time but clearly you were struggling-” Irene barely had time to shove the phone into her pocket before she felt Moran’s fingers clamp down around her throat. She kicked out at him, but her foot missed Moran by miles. Dodging her wild strikes, Moran slammed her against the wall of 221b’s living room. Irene gasped for air as pain blasted through her body, her head spinning. From somewhere above her she heard Moran growl,

“You think I don’t know your game? Think I don’t know how really _desperate_ you are to protect Sherlock Holmes. Don’t fool me, I know you, poisonous little whore. The only person you’ve ever wanted to protect is yourself.” Moran threw her back towards the kitchen table. Irene staggered backwards into it, gulping down the air around it that tasted like the second hand smoke from Moran’s cigarette.

“Where is my flash drive, Irene? Who did you sell it to?”

“I didn’t _sell-_.” Irene spluttered, yelping with pain as Moran’s fist collided with the ribs he had already bruised not days before. Doubling over, a second blow and Moran ensured she ended up on the ground. Other beakers and glasses that had been scattered across the table falling around her.

“You know, you should thank yourself.” He said, squatting down in front of her, “After all, I used to think killin’ was all there was. But now,” he landed another kick to her middle. Irene’s vision of him became punctuated with stars, “See, you taught me the value of pain. It’s endless value.”

Irene spat blood at him, “It was you.” She managed breathlessly, “You called Mycroft Holmes and told him I was here.”

Moran just laughed at her, “I was hoping to draw you out,” he admitted, “Get all this water under the bridge, as it were.”

Irene wanted to respond all that came out of her mouth was forceful coughing as she tried to return the air to her lungs.

“Look at you,” Sebastian lit another cigarette and placed it between his lips, “So consumed by your fear, you became nothing. Just like everyone else wasting their breath in this city, in this world. Nothing destroys your soul like fear. You let your fears destroy you, sweetheart. I’m disappointed. Sure you can make excuses for it. You can call it love. Call it wisdom or kindness. But it’s just fear. Fear of having no one. Fear of retribution-”

“Are you going to kill me? Because dying is starting to sound infinitely more pleasant than this foreplay-” she breathed. It was near agony to speak, “You did always have issues with performance-” she croaked. Another blow, this time to her head. For a good few moments Irene couldn’t see,

“Oh, yes. I’m gonna kill you, miss. Don’t worry about that. No one steals my life and gets to keep breathing. Just gotta take care of this business tonight.”

“You’re pathetic.” Irene panted. Pushing herself upright as her vision returned, “And a liar. You won’t kill me. Not without killing your only chance of getting that flash drive and you can’t touch Sherlock Holmes because then you’d disappoint your master.” She forced herself into a sitting position against the legs of the table, “You have nothing, Sebastian. _You_ _are_ nothing and even Jim Moriarty saw that and left you behind.” Irene saw Moran’s eyes flash, “Oh, and by the way,” Her hand clasped around one of the test tubes Moran had kicked off the table, “I’m an ex-whore.”

Throwing all the force behind it she could muster, Irene hurled the beaker at Moran’s face. It shattered on impact. Warm blood splattering from where it had collided with Moran’s skull onto her own face and hands. With a screech of pain he leapt backward. The splintering feeling on her forearm told her the glass had hit her too. But, at that moment, Baker Street’s door almost exploded off its hinges,

“IRENE!” her name seemed to rip itself from his lungs as Sherlock launched himself toward both of them. But Moran was fast. The rumble and shatter of breaking glass telling Irene that he had already thrown himself out the window. Her vision still blurring, somewhere above her she heard Sherlock swear loudly and the thud that followed indicating that he'd kicked something. Suddenly, she felt hands on her shoulders,

“Miss Adler?” It was Dr Watson’s voice, “Miss Adler, can you hear me?” His concerned face swam in and out of her vision as she nodded her head, but the dizziness was making her feel as if her head had rolled off her shoulders,

“Look after her.” She heard Sherlock bark at Dr Watson, “I’ll get Moran-”

“No,” Dr Watson said clearly. His face leaving her focus to stand up and catch Sherlock’s arm, “You stay here-”

“What-N-?!”

“We need Moran alive and right now I think you just might kill him if you find him.” Dr Watson’s voice was quick and fading. As if he was walking away, “She has, at least, a mild concussion! Keep her talking. Don’t let her lose consciousness. Mary’s tailing Moran in the car. I’ll see what I can do on foot. I’ll call you if we get anything!” he shouted and then he was gone.

The silence rang in Irene’s ears and reverberated against the walls of her skull. Making her want to vomit. Closing her eyes, she could feel her fight to remain conscious drowning in the burning pain that was spreading from her ribs like lava. It seemed to be at no single point in her body, but everywhere. In every bone.

Cool fingers brushed her face. _The blood-_ ,

“No-” Her own voice sounded thick in her ears, “Don’t-”

“It’s just me, Irene.” His voice was as gentle as his fingertips on her cheeks,

“I know.” She breathed out, “It’s not my blood.”

“What-?”

“It’s not my blood.” she whispered again. Dragging her eyelids up so her sight landed on his eyes, inches from her own. They were so beautiful, she’d always thought that. Seeming so empty and grey, but something was always stirring and burning behind them. Like London, itself. As if his eyes were mirrors for the city he saw the truth of.

“Irene-,” Sherlock said. Irene sucked in her breath at the sound of her first name off his lips, “What-?”

“It’s Moran’s blood.” She mumbled, “It’s not mine- on my face. It’s his.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he seemed to catch her drift, “Miss Hooper’s text said you needed fresh DNA,” she attempted to raise her arms as if to say ‘ta da’ but another wave of nausea flooded over her, “Don’t rush to thank me.” She managed finally.

From what she could see of Sherlock’s face, it was odd mixture of horror and deep admiration,“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” Sherlock asked after a few moments that might have been hours. She tilted her head towards him,

“Are you going to help me up?” she groaned, her voice raspy. She could still feel Moran’s hands on her throat. But before she could register it, Sherlock had wrapped her arm carefully around his shoulders and scooped her up into his arms. As if carrying her with him was something he did on a daily basis.

And perhaps it was the pain from her head and ribs clenching at every cell of her body, but somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to Irene Adler that perhaps, in some way, it was possible that he did.

***

Sebastian Moran tore down a side alley a good few blocks South of Baker Street. Blood, still pouring from his head wound, he could feel shards of glass scraping against his skin. He stopped running and leaned against the wall of the building beside him and doubled over, pressing his palms against his knee caps to catch his breath. Ensuring he remained in the shadows of the fire escape just in case Holmes’ loyal mutt caught his scent. Really, it was his wife in the car he’d needed to shake. Sebastian never thought he’d see her face again. But, if he was honest, he had wondered where she had disappeared to. The majority of the assassin community had thought she’d been terminated, or caught. But there she was. It was a small world after all.

Straightening up, Moran reached up a hand and used his fingernails to tear away the last of the fine grains of glass he could still feel below his skin. It might have hurt, but the fury pulsating through his veins almost numbed him. Of all the things he thought Irene Adler could have done with his flash drive when she escaped him, he would have thought that selling him out to Sherlock Holmes would be beneath even her. She had known how much Moran had despised him. The myriad of ways he’d dreamed of killing him after he thought Jim had killed himself.

Whipping around, he turned and punched the brick wall behind him. Hearing the splinting crunch as it cracked around his knuckles. The pain cleared his head of her smug smirk for a few peaceful seconds.

Taking in a few deep breaths through his nose, Moran began rummaging around in the pockets of his torn up jeans.

His mark would be in place at 1900, just under 10 hours. But, as Moran’s fingers finally clasped around Molly Hooper’s stolen mobile phone, a certain glee replaced his rage knowing his own personal business in London would not be completed once his target was terminated.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main challenge of playing Irene Adler was for you to understand why she does the things she does. She isn’t just manipulative, she isn’t just selfish, she isn’t just a complete narcissist. She’s actually a bit dysfunctional and a bit lost and, at times, she’s vulnerable.  
> — Lara Pulver, The Sherlock Chronicles (via otp221b)
> 
> I did a creative writing course last year that was one of the best ones i've ever done. We did a lesson on the use of dreams and visions and in story telling and the argument i came up with for my lil essay was that the most effective use of dream sequences is to show (simultaneously) a character's fears and desires because in my fave books that's usually what they are used for. I got full marks for the essay so i figured that i'd better prove it to myself. So, here goes nothing, I guess :) I adore writing Irene's POV (i've been so excited to write this chapter!!!) I know a lot of fanfic writers i talk to hate it but she's so layered and clever and fuckin awesome i wish i could do it all the time but my general rule with perspectives is "who can tell this bit the best?" thats why I change the POV up a lot, you might've noticed. Anyways hope u liked it. letzplaymurder.tumblr.com if u wanna chat


	7. A Sentimental Indiscretion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler's conflict with Sebastian Moran has left her in quite a state. While Mary and John pursue him across the streets of London, Sherlock tends to her injuries. Will she finally explain Moran's determination to kill her? And will they find a way to apprehend him before he terminates his target?

Sherlock could feel his heart slamming in every single cell of his body as he knelt in front of a bloody faced Irene Adler, slumping against the legs of his kitchen table. The only sound he could hear was his own terrified sharp breaths. Of course, he could tell from the splatter pattern that the blood on her face wasn’t hers before she had even mumbled that it was Sebastian Moran’s, but that didn’t alleviate a single one of the several knots clenching at his diaphragm.

“Irene-” he had been saying her name again and again for several seconds but she was struggling to respond. The purpling of a bruise already appearing on the right side of her forehead where Moran must have kicked her. Sherlock felt a wave of fury wash over him that almost blurred his vision, “Irene?” he breathed frantically.

Her eyes met his, but glazed over almost instantly. She was still wearing his scarlet dressing gown that she had put on after her bath yesterday. Now hanging off both her shoulders from the struggle, Sherlock glanced at her slightly exposed stomach and felt a wave of relief when he saw no obvious evidence of internal bleeding. Glad to note that Moran didn’t hit as hard as he thought he did,

“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper and he could hear it shaking in the air between them,

“Are you going to help me up?” Irene groaned back, but Sherlock had already begun carefully wrapping her arm that wasn’t covered in shards of glass and blood around his shoulders and within seconds, was cradling her against his chest. Having lifted her off the floor into his arms. Irene let out a breath that seemed to be a mixture of relief and pain.

Sherlock couldn’t help thinking about the last time he had carried her like this. When a piece of flying debris from the explosion in Karachi had collided with her skull. Knocking her unconscious almost instantly.

Despite all that she had been through then, she had still been heavier in his arms. She barely weighed anything now. Moran seemed to have set out to categorically destroy her. But why?

Gritting his teeth against yet another knot his stomach, Sherlock carefully sat her down at one of the kitchen chairs. Irene slid sideways off it almost straight away. Sherlock rushed to catch her and let her steady herself as she gripped onto his forearms. Kneeling in front of her, he could feel her trembling through his hands. Beneath the blood on her face, her skin was ghostly pale with a twinge of green that went slightly darker each time she opened her eyes. Her breathing growing more and more ragged as she forced it into the slice of air between them.

“Irene,” it was an effort to keep his voice steady, “You’re going into shock. Keep your eyes closed if you need to, but keep breathing. Focus on your breathing, alright? Nothing else.” Their faces were inches apart so that when Irene nodded he felt fine grains of glass flick onto his cheeks from her hair. She was still gripping his forearms so tightly it was beginning to hurt him. Glancing down at them, Sherlock saw there was a large shard of glass wedged into her left arm above the wrist where her leather glove stopped and, Judging from the blood trickling down from beneath the glove, the glass had cut her there too. _She must have put some serious force behind throwing the glass at Moran_ , he thought. Feeling his mouth twitch upwards despite it all,

“I need to get this blood off you.” 

“Be my guest,” she panted, still clutching his arms for support.

“Irene-?”

“I know,” she half gasped, her face going green again, “I just-” she took a deep breath that Sherlock could feel on his face, “I need a minute.” Nodding, Sherlock said nothing for a few long minutes. Listening intently as she attempted to gain control of her breathing. To force it to slow. All the while Sherlock holding as still as he could as he knelt in front of her slumped shuddering form in the chair. Her hands still clutching his arms. Their height difference meant they were almost at eye level and Sherlock could still smell traces of his own shampoo on her. Mixed with the metallic scent of blood and fresh cigarette smoke which made him frown.

But, slowly, the grip of Irene’s fingers loosened.

After another few minutes, even her trembling began to calm. Sherlock gently slid his hands through hers and placed her hands carefully in her lap. She was still green, though the shade was slightly lighter. Quickly, he got up to grab a first aid kit and a spare blood tube from the kitchen cupboard. He was reaching for it when the sound of his phone ringing snapped his head back towards Miss Adler. Gingerly, she reached into her pocket with her uninjured arm and held it out to him. Snatching it up, he glanced at the screen and glared at the caller I.D. before pressing it to his ear,

“Sherlock? What’s happening? Why can I not reach either of my private security that I stationed at 221b?”

“Because Sebastian Moran killed them when he broke in here to get Miss Adler.” Sherlock growled at his brother through gritted teeth. There was silence.

“Good God,” Mycroft sighed after a moment, “Well, I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I did offer protective custody for her-”

“YOU TRIED TO INCASERATE ME AND ACCUSE MY FR-”

“Your what, Sherlock?” Mycroft interrupted. Sherlock swallowed, glancing over his shoulder at Miss Adler, who was beginning to slump hazardously forward in her chair again, “I’m very busy organising this summit Sherlock,” Mycroft continued. Sherlock scowled at the irritation in his brother’s voice, but it was still not without urgency, “Have you got any idea who Moran is targeting in London?”

“Obviously, someone at the summit.” Sherlock spat into the phone, “Could be the prime minister or any of the foreign ministers - anyone-! His targets are the ones no one else will hit. Moran’s a ghost.”

“Clearly.” Mycroft drawled. “Seeing as he slipped through your _watertight_ protection of Miss Adler so easily.”

Sherlock knew he was only saying this because the phone line between them removed the danger of Sherlock strangling him in person. But that didn’t stop him from snarling his next words into the receiver,

“If you’re so desperate to know Moran’s movements, brother dear- call him. It’s not as though that’s beneath you.” Sherlock ended the call and pocketed the phone.

Returning his attentions back towards Miss Adler, he retrieved the first aid kit and blood tube from where he’d dropped them on the counter, before pulling up a chair in front of her as close as he dared so that they were at eye level.

Irene’s eyes were still pressed shut against her vertigo. Despite being mostly upright, she was swaying dangerously. Sherlock listened to her breathing, slightly weaker, as he leaned toward her,

“Miss Adler?” Sherlock said softly. Nothing. “Miss Adler?” Sherlock’s heart was slamming as he placed his hands on her shoulders, “Irene!” her eyes fluttered open. Sherlock let out the breath he didn’t realize been holding as she laughed a laugh that was more like a soft gasp,

“Frightened.” She muttered as Sherlock removed his hands from her shoulders, “You only call me that when you’re frightened.” She didn’t even seem to be talking to him. In fact, judging from her tone, it was likely that she didn’t realize she was talking at all. Sherlock wanted to say _well, it is your name,_ but decided against it as he dug around in the first aid kit for some cotton buds.

Upon finding them, he carefully placed the tips of his fingers beneath Miss Adler’s chin and steadied her swaying enough to dab a considerable amount of Moran’s blood from her cheeks and forehead, before stuffing the blood soaked cotton buds into the tubes and pocketing them. There was still quite a lot of blood on her face, but the shard of glass sticking out of her forearm rested in her lap took priority. He reached down and lifted it gently to place it on the table beside them. The movement seemed to jog Irene to her senses and she opened her eyes to look down at his hand holding her arm and frowned,

“Oh, that doesn’t look pleasant.” She mumbled, “I can’t really feel it- must be the adrenaline.” The colour was returning to her face as her eyes followed Sherlock’s hand up to his face,

“Your pupils are severely dilated.” He said to her, after holding her gaze for a few moments.

“That old pick up line.” Despite the croak of her voice, it dripped with sarcasm,

“You have a concussion,” he continued, ignoring the heat rushing to his cheeks, “You need to stay conscious for as long as possible.”

“Hm. And you’re going to help me with that, are you?” a playful edge creeping into her voice as Sherlock began picking the smaller shards of glass out of her arm with tweezers,

“No.” He said, moving his hand beneath her forearm to hold it still. Realizing with an involuntary jolt of his heart that he was touching her skin for the first time in 4 years, “You’re going to tell me everything you know about Sebastian Moran without lying.” Irene winced as he continued to pluck glass from her arm.

“Am I, now?” she responded. Sherlock shot her a look. They sat there in silence for a moment. Sherlock continuing to treat her arm until she asked, her voice raspy “Where’s the flash drive?” Sherlock used his free hand to reach inside the chest pocket of his jacket and produce it. Holding it before her gaze before returning it to his pocket to free up his hand to steady her arm. Neither of them spoke again until,

“He was your client.” Sherlock looked up from her arm, “Wasn’t he?” Irene went pale again. The ghoulish green tinge returning to her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut against, what Sherlock only guessed, was another wave of nausea. After a moment however, she swallowed, opening her eyes, again. Sweeping him up and down. Taking him in, as if to assess whether or not he was worthy of the answer to his question. He felt heat rushing to his cheeks as he realized how close they were sitting, before her eyes landed on her own arm being steadied between his fingers,

“More than that.” She said, finally, clearing her throat in an effort to rid herself of the croak in her voice. Sherlock felt as if his heart had stopped until, “You didn’t think I got Jim Moriarty’s phone number off a bathroom wall, did you? Ouch-”

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered automatically, taking a deep breath to steady his fingers before resuming.

“I would never have crossed paths with Jim Moriarty without Sebastian Moran’s,” she paused, as if she was selecting her words with the upmost caution, “recommendation.”

“Recommendation?”

“Men like Moran will talk if they feel they’ve got nothing else,” her eyes slid down over Sherlock, a smile twitching at her lips before returning her eyes to his, “to impress with.” If he hadn’t been blushing before, there was no chance he wasn’t now. It was Sherlock’s turn to clear his throat,

“You stole it, then. The phone number.”

She smirked at him, “Mr Holmes, he was my client. I,” she paused, “acquired it.”

Sherlock looked up at her, “You contacted Jim Moriarty by betraying his psychopathic murderous lieutenant?”  he asked, incredulously. She chuckled at him,

“You look as impressed as he did.” She coughed.

“Miss Adle-”

“I am aware that, in hindsight, it probably wasn’t the most intelligent decision. But I can’t exactly bring myself to _completely_ regret it.”

“Really?” Sherlock said, his voice alight with sarcastic interest, watching her wince as he began to pull one of the last larger shards from the top of her forearm, “Do tell me why that is.”

“I would hardly know the pleasure,” she groaned as the shard came free of her arm, “of your company, otherwise.” Sherlock couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not and he suspected she had done that deliberately. Though, that didn’t stop him from holding her gaze until he could hear is heart beat in his ears and feel it hammering against his every nerve.

“You’d hardly be dead, either.” He muttered.

“I’m not dead.”

“I know.”

How he hated this. The way she made him so aware of his body. So aware of how there was barely inches of air between them. Aware of how their bodies were so inclined towards the other as they sat opposite one another in chairs beside his kitchen table.  So aware of his pulse. As if his heart felt the need to ensure he was aware she was in his proximity (as if it was remotely possible for him not to be) by attempting to leap from where it was held in his body to join hers. But since that was not possible, it just spread to every other corner of his anatomy. As if his heart could do nothing but consume him in her presence because it couldn’t reach her. And the worst of it all? He knew it had nothing to do with hate.

Sherlock blinked and shook his head. Pulling himself out of his reverie with a massive effort because Irene was talking again.

 “Moran was desperate to find Moriarty. When he found me he assumed because I was one of his last clients that I would know his whereabouts.” she was saying. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, “Would I be here if I knew?” she answered his unspoken question, scowling.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock admitted.

She blinked at him before continuing, “The thing you need to understand about Sebastian Moran is he’s like a brainwashed hound.”

“I said as much when you arrived.” Sherlock agreed.

“He would never do anything to defy his master but he’ll do anything to make life easier for him. So, when he eventually figured out that I didn’t know anything and he’d better kill me,” Her face suddenly went pale as she closed her eyes against another wave of nausea that must have flooded over her, but she continued, her voice straining as she squeezed her eyes closed again, “I pointed out to him my death was a waste of his time unless it was witnessed by Sherlock Holmes.” she finished. Sherlock sucked in his breath, his heart tying itself into a knot in his chest,

 “Moriarty’s determination to destroy me kept you alive, then?” He managed, finally.

“Not for the first time.” She breathed out and opened her eyes to look at him and he felt like smiling. Though, he wasn’t quite sure why. Looking away from her, he glanced down at her arm in his hand. To his surprise he seemed to have retrieved most of the glass. However, there was still the trickle of blood trailing down her arm from beneath her glove,

“There’s glass underneath your glove.” Sherlock said cautiously, peering up at her.

She stared at him for a long moment, then, until, “And you want to leave it there as what? A souvenir?”

“No.” Sherlock mumbled as he gently peeled the glove from her skin and felt himself inhale sharply.

***

Mary Watson’s knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel of her car. But it was all she could do to stop herself from putting her fist through the glass window. Moran had shaken her off, goddammit. He had shaken her off. What was worse? Was that she knew that he saw her and there wasn’t much of a chance Moran wouldn’t have recognised her.

Biting her lip, she looked around for John. The car was stuck in a traffic jam and John had continued to pursue Moran on foot. It had been 10 minutes. Moran had deliberately lead her into heavy traffic and she had lost sight of them both. Mary could hear her teeth beginning to grind together. But, at that moment, the car door opened. Automatically, Mary drew her gun,

“Hey-whoah-! It’s just me, love.”  John panted, frantically. Throwing his hands up as he slid into the passenger seat beside her and closed the car door behind him. Mary stowed away her gun. Relishing her short lived relief,

“Anything?” Mary asked, but she knew the answer.

“Nothing. He buggered off and I lost him.” John said hopelessly, still trying to catch his breath. Mary punched the car horn and swore loudly. John jumped,

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

Mary shot him a glare, “And you do?” 

“No. Just there’s a difference between ‘ohh this guy’s evil, we need to take him down’ and ‘I’m going to bash the car cos we haven’t killed him yet.’ You nearly looked as bad as Sherlock did when we were listening to Miss Adler’s phone call.”

Mary inhaled a sharp breath through her nose, glaring at her husband for a few moments before, “People like Moran really shouldn’t be alive.” she said.

John frowned at her, “But,” he cautioned, “Didn’t you used to-?”

“I got a mark, I’d terminate it and move on. Moran gets a mark, he kills 70 people along the way and uses his target as an excuse. He’s messy. That’s why he has that flash drive. He finds any footage or hair out of place, replaces it and keeps the evidence on there.”

“But isn’t that a bit stupid? You’d literally be storing up evidence to incriminate yourself?” asked John.

“He doesn’t see it that way. He’d see it as a portfolio. But now it’s in the wrong hands for him, he’ll realize how ignorant he was. Which makes him all the more desperate, all the more dangerous and all the more messy.”

“Did you know it existed? The flash drive?”

“No." Mary answered. "I was just as shocked as Sherlock when she showed it to him. Thought it might’ve been a fake. God knows how she got it.” Mary stopped, spotting the concern on her husband’s face, “Do you think she’ll be alright?” she asked.  John rubbed his face with his hands,

“She had no fatal or urgent injuries. Besides, I get the feeling Sherlock will look after her. She’s in good hands. Moran seems to have put her through hell, though.”

“I’d all too happily send him there for it.” Mary muttered.

John chuckled darkly, “You and Sherlock both.” He said and with that the traffic finally began to move and Mary chucked an illegal U-turn to head back to Baker St.

***

Sherlock was still gaping at Irene Adler’s hands.

While Miss Adler’s face was pale, almost ghost like from her shock and trauma. Her hands, in contrast, were black. Bruised. Sherlock recognized the type immediately as the type of bruises one acquired when a needle being administered had missed or gone through the targeted vain. Immediately observing the dozen or so needle punctures below her knuckles and on her wrists as her palm rested against his. The cool skin of her hand touching his own for the first time in years. He reached for her other hand and removed the glove, swallowing when he saw a large gash on the inside of her palm as he turned her hand over between his fingers.

“The blood on the gun,” he whispered.

“My escape was not without difficulty. But I wasn’t leaving without that flash drive. Not without an advantage.” She said. Sherlock stared at her small hands. So delicate, like the rest of her frame. Now purple and blue with torment.

“Blood draining.” His voice was thick, “Poorly done. He was keeping you as weak as humanly possible,” he swallowed, “without killing you.”

“As I said, the torture was uncreative.” Her voice shook slightly. Sherlock looked up at her. Now he felt nauseous. Seeing his wide eyes reflected in hers which were such a similar color to his own.

“I suppose he enjoyed the irony after being your client.” He growled, after a moment.

“Moran isn’t complicated.” She agreed as Sherlock pulled the last shards of glass lodged in the crease of her wrist away and tossed the tweezers back into the first aid kit, “Though, I had forgotten his fetish for knives,” she mused, Sherlock feeling her hand move in his as she flexed the gashed palm of her left hand. None of the cuts sustained from the glass seemed deep enough to justify sterilizing. Of course they would need to be covered. Sherlock knew he needed to reach for the band aids. But he just sat there. Her hands in his, their faces inches apart. Watching her stare at her hands. After a moment, he found himself brushing his thumb and index fingers lightly over the marks and bruises, as unsure why he was doing it as he was unable to stop himself

“How did he find you?” Sherlock’s voice was low, “How did he find out you were alive?” His eyes met hers. As they did, to his surprise, she chuckled,

“Haven’t you worked it out?” she said. He frowned at her bemused expression, “Come on now, Mr Holmes. We even discussed it yesterday.” Sherlock continued to frown at her, she raised an eyebrow at him, “Or didn’t you get my rose?”

Sherlock felt his jaw drop. His stomach twisted in on itself for what seemed like the 100th time in the last hour and it was like he could feel Mary’s bullet in his chest all over again,

“Oh, please don’t blame yourself.” She snapped, a hint of annoyance in her voice, “It’s not like you invited me. It was a,” she looked down at their hands and Sherlock saw a smile twitch at her lip before she looked back at him, “sentimental indiscretion on my part.”

“Miss Adler, my one request was-”

“Do not contact you under any circumstances- But the last time you ‘died’ turned out to be rather,” he watched her expression carefully. She seemed to be searching desperately for a word, “anticlimactic.” She settled on, finally, “When I heard you were shot, I thought I’d see for myself this time. We even had a conversation. Though, you were rather anaesthetized. You thought I was a hallucination. Nothing out of the ordinary, it seems. Judging from yesterday-”

“I do not hallucinate about you.” Sherlock said, a little too defiantly,

“Daydream, then?” she teased.

 “No.” Sherlock looked away from her. Silently praying that the morning sunlight pouring in through Baker Street’s windows didn’t highlight the red in his cheeks. Relieved they were sitting in shadow.

“Oh, of course not.” She said. Apparently serious, but Sherlock could see from the corner of his eye it was an effort for her to hold back a smile, “Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock sighed, slowly turning his head back to face her, “Probably for the same reason someone would compromise their cover just to give me flowers.” Sherlock gave her a crooked smile, watching her pale cheeks turn a pinkish hue.

“I told you. I was curious.” she mumbled.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, “Interesting. I was thinking more along the lines of,” he paused, relishing the word, “concerned?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Sherlock Holmes.” She smirked, though they were both smiling now. It must have been the first time he had smiled in days. Maybe even months. Unable to help himself, he drank in the sight of her resisting the urge to grin at him. Holding her gaze for what might have been minutes. His thumbs still absently stroking the tops of her hands as he held them in his. Their foreheads so close, he knew his curls were almost brushing her forehead.

“You knew he was after me, though, didn’t you?” she whispered so he could feel it on his cheeks, “That’s why you left me alone with your unlocked phone.”

“I had my suspicions.”

“Since?”

“Since you insisted on staying here until Moran was apprehended. That, plus your injuries-” he trailed off, “I hoped I was wrong.” He leaned back from her ever so slightly. He felt like he was drowning. But at the same time, he hadn’t breathed this easy in days.

“Why didn’t you say anything? You could have told me if you knew. Saved time.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly, “I-” He broke eye contact with her and glanced down at their intertwined hands in the space between their laps, “Because you were afraid.” He mumbled, his heart slamming into his ear drums, “I know you hate it when I think you’re afraid and I thought I could-” He broke off. Irene leaned forward so their foreheads were almost touching once more. Sherlock wanted to look way from her, but she was devouring nearly all five of his senses. The smell of his shampoo on her, the sound of her breathing, her hands resting in his and there was nowhere he could look that wasn’t her. A small part of him knowing he wouldn’t look anywhere else, even if he could.

“I can handle fear, Mr Holmes.” She whispered into his lips.

“Believe me, I know.” He whispered back, resigning to meet her gaze, “Doesn’t mean I want you to.” He managed. Something flickered across her eyes that was beyond Sherlock’s own reflection. He barely had time to consider it before she had pressed them shut and closed the gap between their foreheads.

For a wild moment, Sherlock thought she was going to kiss him. But, no. She just pressed herself to him. So lightly, Sherlock might not have been aware of it, if her touch wasn’t enough to set every atom of his body alight. But she was just leaning into him. Her shorter hair tickling his cheeks while his curls pressed gently against her bruised forehead that she seemed to have all but forgotten. The tip of her nose resting against the ridge of his as he listened to her breaths pass deeply through it. It was as if all she wanted was to breathe him in. As if breathing his air was the greatest relief she had felt in an age.

To a small part of him that wasn’t consumed by her, it seemed ridiculous. But as Sherlock kept his eyes open, soaking in the sight of her holding herself to him and listened to the sound of his own breathing as it began to match hers. He knew he was doing the same.

“I didn’t mention,” she breathed out as he felt her hand leave his and absently travel up to rest on his chest, somewhere below his collar. Her eyes were still closed, but Sherlock could see her lips relaxing into a smile.

“Hm?” his own voice sounded groggy now.

“It’s good to see you, Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered with a slight chuckle that Sherlock could only return.

“You have no idea, Miss Adler.”

 And the sound of two pairs of shuffling footsteps and Baker Street’s door opening shattered through their moment like gunfire. Sherlock tore his eyes away from Miss Adler’s and glanced sideways at an extremely apologetic and slightly embarrassed looking Mary as she stopped dead in 221b's doorway and began to mutter a torrent of apologies. Clapping a hand over her mouth to hide an obvious grin as she did. Turning on her heel to stop John in his tracks, saying ‘we should probably come back later’. Sherlock looked back at Miss Adler whose eyes were open now as she gave him an amused sort of smile. Her eyes flicking over to John and Mary and back to his. Sherlock sighed and pulled himself away from her with an effort that was greater than he would have prefered. Unable to stop his hands from lingering a moment longer in hers before he got up and turned to face John and Mary,

“You lost him?”

“Sorry, Sherlock.” Mary sounded it too. Sherlock dragged a hand down his face as he looked back over at Miss Adler.

“You alright?” John asked Irene, it was then Sherlock noticed there was still some faint bloodstains on her cheeks.

“I’ll live. Thank you, Dr Watson.” She smiled at him before her smile eventually wondered to Sherlock and they held each other’s glance for a few seconds before Sherlock shook his head and looked back at Mary.

“Then we have to figure out who his mark is.” Sherlock began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, “Moran said to you,” Sherlock pointed in Irene’s direction, “He said he would kill you. But not until after tonight. Which means whoever it is, he’s going to kill them tonight.”

“Well, tonight’s that national delegate summit thing at parliament house. Been all over the news?” John offered.

“Could be any of them. They’re all tough targets. Moran only does tough.” agreed Mary.

Sherlock stopped pacing, “What did you say?”

“I said-” Mary began,

“No, not you. You,” he looked at Irene who frowned at him, “You said to Moran, you said four weeks of torture?”

“Yes.”

“But you think he was watching you from when you visited me in hospital?”

“I know he was.” She said, “Took him a while to catch up to me.”

“Wait, what-?” burst out John, “Visited you in-? You-? In hospital-?” John looked from Irene to Sherlock, “That was six months ago!”

“Exactly.” Sherlock said, “So, we know he pursued you for months. Why? Because he’s looking for Moriarty. Everything Moran has done in, at least, the last 6 months, has been to find his _beloved_ Master.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with disgust as his eyes flicked towards Irene’s hands.

“Yeah,” Mary said while John went to the kitchen and filled a cup with water, “But killing some politician isn’t going to help with that. Unless-” Sherlock caught Mary’s eye.

“Unless what?” John asked. He had taken Sherlock’s seat beside Irene. They were both watching Sherlock and Mary, apparently enthralled. Irene drinking the glass of water Sherlock had seen John fill up in the kitchen. Pulling his eyes away from her, once again, Sherlock returned his attention to Mary.

“Unless he just wants to get Moriarty’s attention.” Sherlock finished Mary’s thought.

“Moriarty’s attention is quite devoted to you, Mr Holmes.” Irene said.

John nodded in agreement,“You’re his obsession, mate. You know that.”

“But Moran can’t kill me.” Sherlock groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, “That’s why you’re here, yes?” He gestured wildly at Irene, “Because you knew Moran wouldn’t come near me. Killing me is an honor reserved only for Moriarty and Moran wouldn’t dare defy that.” Sherlock could feel all their eyes on him as he paced furiously around the room, only noticing then that his web was in tatters from Miss Adler’s confrontation with Moran. The strings and tendrils, now nothing but tangled and torn masses on the floor. Mrs Hudson was certainly going to give him hell for the state of the apartment-

“No, no! Everyone shut up!” he knew he shouted that aloud. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Adler flinch, “What did Moran say to you?” he watched Irene’s eyes widen at the sudden address,

“On what particular occasion?” 

“Today. This morning,”

“You heard everything I did, Mr Holmes.” She said. Sherlock saw her start to go pale again.

“Okay. Okay…” He whispered, clasping his hands together on the back of his neck, “You said he was an idiot if he’d hurt me.”

“And you don’t agree?” Frowned Irene.

“He said he wasn’t interested in me. Just the name..” Sherlock trailed off, fluffing up his curls in frustration. His eyes scanning the room. Moran’s conversation with Irene reverberating around his mind, making him ball his hands into fists at his sides until he had to shut his eyes against the noise of his mind. But then, “ _Oh_ ,” his eyes snapped open, “Oh!”

“Sherlock-?” Mary asked.

“Oh, you even said it.” He breathed, walking over to Irene, “You said he’ll do anything to make Moriarty’s life easier.” Sherlock chuckled at their befuddled and concerned faces.

“Sherlock-? Explain-?” Started John, but he stopped when Sherlock swooped down and kissed Irene’s forehead,

“And he would know that he helped me,” Sherlock rattled on, clapping his hands together, “Or just about the imprisonment- Either way it would get his attention- I’ve always wished he was dead. Lord knows he’s not just doing Jim Moriarty a favor there. Well,” he laughed, manically “be careful what you wish for.”

“Mr Holmes-?” Irene’s voice snapped him back,

“You two,” Sherlock looked between John and Mary, “Do not let her out of your sight.” He began to head towards the door.

“Sherlock!” John was close on his heels. But Sherlock slammed the door in his face.

***

It was 2pm when Sebastian Moran began setting up his sniper in the black security jeep outside Dowling Street.  One of the two security guards sat beside him in the passenger seat. Trembling, murmuring some babble about his wife and kids as if they somehow defined the value of his life. Like these two people who existed completely separate from this situation could change Moran’s decision regarding his ‘life’,

“V2, come in V2,” the radio on the dashboard crackled.

“Answer it,” Moran barked, the security guard reached forward.

“Don’t do it,” choked out the second security guard Moran had relegated to the backseat.

“V2, this is V7, come in.”

 “Don’t answer it, Jeff,” blubbered the second guard. Moran sighed as he screwed his silencer onto his rifle and drew a knife from his pocket. Jeff (apparently that was his name), flinched in the passenger seat. But Moran flicked the knife over his left shoulder. It landed squarely in the second guard’s collar bone. Before his scream had barely escaped his lungs, Moran pressed his rifle between his eyes and fired. Finally, peace and quiet.

“Answer the radio,” Moran suggested to Jeff, who nodded. Snatching up the radio. It nearly slipped through his quivering fingers. Beads of sweat running down his temple as he shook.

“This is V2.” He squeaked.

“Oh, there you are, V2. Everything’s running on schedule. Boss said he’d be here in a five hours. Everything okay at your end?” Jeff shot Moran a terrified glance,

“Fine. All good here.”

“V7 out.” Jeff hung up the radio. Moran felt a vibration in his pocket,

“Hold this.” Moran handed Jeff his knife and dug around his pocket for Molly Hooper’s stolen phone. When he retrieved it, the screen lit up with a message from Sherlock Holmes,

_Get the newly matched DNA and gun to Lestrade ASAP._

“You poisonous fucking whore.” He muttered, stowing away the phone and taking back his knife from Jeff. He wanted to kill Jeff, or just something. No, not something. _Her._ She’d given his flash drive to Sherlock Holmes and he was walking around London with it. He’d kill her for that. Since he couldn’t kill him. Moran took a deep breath. He had to focus. This was his chance. Irene Adler’s death would be exquisite, he knew. But first, he would kill Mycroft Holmes.

***

Irene Adler sat cross-legged in Sherlock’s arm chair with her the fingernail of her index finger between her teeth. She was tired. The immediate shock had long worn off and left exhaustion in its wake. Dr Watson had insisted she go and rest but she refused. He had gone to check on their baby, Ella, downstairs with Mrs Hudson and left Mrs Watson to babysit her. She was sitting in Dr Watson’s usual chair. Absently filing her nails, watching Irene from the corner of her eye while Irene kept glancing at the door. Neither of them watching the television Dr Watson had turned on to fill the silences when he and Mrs Watson weren't talking.

“He’ll be back.” Mrs Watson piped up, reassuringly. Sherlock had been gone an hour.

“Pardon?”

“Sherlock, he’ll be back. He’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry.” She said, simply. Looking over at her.

“I’m not.”

“You keep looking at the door.”

“Need I remind you I was almost strangled this morning, Mrs Watson.”

“Yes, but Moran didn’t leave via the door. Sherlock did and Moran won’t touch him. So, just rest. He’ll be fine.”

Irene scowled at her, “I know.” she muttered.  Her mind involuntarily flicking back to Sherlock’s fingertips brushing her hands and she felt her heart skip. Silently cursing herself as she remembered holding herself against him with a disgusting amount of sentiment for something that she had told herself and justified was necessary to guarantee her protection. Shaking herself mentally, she reached into the pocket of Sherlock’s dressing gown and her hand fastened around Moran’s flash drive in her pocket. Mrs Watson was right, _Moran wouldn’t go near Sherlock Holmes. But there was no way in hell she would leave her protection completely in his hands, again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The hand is the most visible part of the brain." Immanuel Kant. 
> 
> This chapter is all about hands. I did originally call it "In Good Hands" but A sentimental indiscretion sounded prettier i guess. I have too much to say about this chapter. Forehead touching is everything to me. I think its cos i kinda grew up in New Zealand and the traditional Maori greeting there is touching foreheads cos they believe that when you do that you are breathing in and welcoming that person's soul and I honestly think thats the most beautiful belief I'll ever know and I feel privileged to have actually experienced that. Also, on a different note. There's an image of rachel mccadams irene and rdj holmes touching foreheads and I kinda wanted to create that for these guys too :)))


	8. My Regards To The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Moran's target is realized. But can Sherlock hope to catch Moran when everyone has been underestimating him? Can he hope to protect the people he cares about from a man no one can find before it's too late?

Mycroft Holmes was about to get out of the back of his car when he decided not to ignore his little brother’s seventh phone call in a less amount of minutes. Sighing, he pulled the phone from his pocket and brought it up to his ear,

“What, Sherlock? I-”

Sherlock cut across him, speaking at the rate of knots, “Call me back on a phone not yours or your security’s.” Sherlock hung up.  Mycroft rolled his eyes and, after a moment, acquired the driver’s personal cell.

“I assume there is cause for this inconvenience?” he groaned when Sherlock picked up. The frustrated tone of Sherlock’s response echoed his own,

“Sebastian Moran is targeting you.” Sherlock replied. Mycroft’s breath snagged in his chest and his next words did not come as smoothly from him as he hoped,

“Don’t play games, Sherlock. I know he hurt Miss Adler but this is no reason for you to-”

“THIS ISN’T A TRICK, MYCROFT!” Sherlock bellowed, “Moran told her he would be terminating his target tonight. He’s desperate to get Moriarty’s attention and he can’t kill me so he’s decided to go for the next best thing.”

“Ah, so Miss Adler told you this, did she? Because she’s _such_ a reliable source of information-”

“I heard Moran tell her when Moran broke into my home- past your ‘security’- and almost killed her.” Sherlock snarled. Mycroft frowned.

“Even if that’s true, Sherlock. Given recent events, why would you warn me?” There was a pause for such a long moment, Mycroft checked to see that Sherlock hadn’t hung up. But then Sherlock said,

“Because here be dragons, brother dear.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smirk at his little brother’s retort, “Tell me what you know.”

***

Despite her best intentions, Irene Adler had fallen asleep. The pain in her ribs was rather excruciating and, while she had met Dr Watson’s naggings for her to rest with point blank refusal, she very gratefully accepted his offer of pain killers. Of course, once her pain had been dulled, it had been quite a challenge to resist giving into her exhaustion.

Frowning, she lifted her head from where she had cushioned it on her forearm on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and looked around, wondering what had woken her. Plunging her hand quickly into the pocket of Sherlock’s dressing gown, she exhaled sharply when her fingers closed around the cool surface of Moran's flash drive.

Dr Watson and Mrs Watson seemed to have removed themselves to the landing just outside the apartment. They were arguing in loud whispers that floated towards her from the ajar door.

“Sherlock told us we weren’t needed and we should stay away.”

“He always says that.” Replied Dr Watson,

“Well, if you’re going chasing after Moran and Sherlock, I’m coming too.”

“We can’t both go. If we leave, Ella is on her own. Not to mention Sherlock will kill us if we leave Irene Adler alone after this morning.”

“Exactly.” Mrs Watson sighed, exasperated, “So stay here.”

“I can’t shake this feeling, Mary. What are we missing?”

It was then Irene realized what had woken her up.

Ella Watson was crying. Squirming distressingly in her little portable cot that Mrs Hudson had dropped by with earlier that evening. It was sitting in the middle of the coffee table next to her. Irene guessed Mrs Watson had placed her in there before going out to stop Dr Watson from pursuing Sherlock, even though he hadn’t been gone that long. Maybe Ella had been asleep then, but she was crying quite profusely now and her parents seemed too engrossed in their argument over (what was practically) their other child to take any immediate notice.

Irene got warily to her feet, swaying on the spot for a moment. The ground almost seemed to come up to meet her before she sucked in her breath and squeezed her eyes closed. The remnants of Moran’s boot to her head had left her with an unsettling amount of dizzy spells. But, after she took a few more moments to collect herself, Irene folded her arms and opened her eyes to frown down at the distressed infant before her.

After she had stared at it for a long moment in which Ella’s strained sobs floated up towards her and fillled up Irene’s eardrums. The only thought she seemed to form was utter confusion as to why on earth anyone would subject themselves to this wriggling being of noise and incoherent sound.

Glancing at the ajar door that lead out to the landing, both Watsons still seemed to be arguing in hisses. Irene looked back down at their offspring.

“A long time ago I got told tears are just excuses for inaction-” Irene stated, keeping her voice low, watching the door from the corner of her eye. Judging from the pause in Ella Watson’s crying, it was loud enough for her to hear, “Parents.” Irene muttered mutinously, glancing around, “Not that they were my parents just…” Irene trailed off, “One of the many sets.” Averting her eyes from a now quieter and seemingly transfixed Ella, Irene started to skim over some of the headlines of the newspaper articles that were now strewn across the floor as a result of her encounter with Moran that morning.

They all concerned Moriarty in one way or another, she guessed. Though some of them seemed irrelevant to her. Dating back even 13 years.  _DETECTIVE THROWS HIMSELF FROM HOSPITAL_ jumped out at her, “Only cry about things that can’t be changed,” she chanted from memory, tearing her eyes away from the headline, “If you ask me that’s when it’s _especially_ pointless. Particularly when you know better,” she scowled and sighed as she spotted an article with a massively bolded headline, _#SherlockLives!_ , “Sometimes it’s all you can do, apparently.” Her eyes lingered on the headline, “Even if it’s the last thing you expected...” She looked away from it and her eyes met up with Ella’s again, “Or deserve.” Irene frowned and shook her head. _Definitely still concussed, she was talking to an infant_. But Ella was quiet in her crib now, staring quizzically up at her. Irene felt a smile tug at her lips, despite herself.

At that moment Dr and Mrs Watson re-entered the room. Dr Watson’s face, already grim, became even more disgruntled when he spotted Irene standing over his baby. He frowned.

“What are you doing?” Mrs Watson asked with an edge to her voice that made Irene roll her eyes.

“I was trying to sleep.” Irene replied irritably. Mary’s eyes followed her as she sat back down in Sherlock’s chair. Irene wincing at the pain in her side as she did.

“I thought you didn’t want to sleep.” Dr Watson said.

“Neither did your offspring, apparently.” Irene retorted. Dr Watson shook his head at her before turning back to his wife,

“If we don’t hear from him in the next hour, I’m going after him, alright?”

“Fine.” Mary chirped, “And if I don’t hear from either of you within half an hour, I’ll do the same.”

Dr Watson didn’t seem to like that but knew it was pointless to argue, “What about-?” he started.

“Don’t worry about me, Dr Watson,” Irene said. Flashing him a smirk as her fingers closed around the flash drive in her pocket once more, “I’ll be fine.”

***

Sherlock had explained his theory to Mycroft as quickly as he could as his cab sped towards Dowling Street, “Stay in your car. Do not get out.” Instructed Sherlock's urgent voice through the phone pressed to Mycroft's ear.

“Sherlock, I am coordinating a meeting of foreign delegates-” Mycroft began to protest.

“I wonder if, after Moran puts a bullet through your brain, I can still perform my intended experiments on it.” Mused Sherlock with obvious sarcasm. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“How close are you?” Mycroft asked.

“Close.”

“Sherlock, if you think he’s in one of security vans-”

“He is.”

“There’s only 3 of my private security vans around me. We can move in on them-” Mycroft stopped, nearly jumping out of his skin as Sherlock slid into the back of the car beside him and slammed the door shut. Glancing all around him as he did.

“There’s no way you could do that and Moran won’t see you coming and I want him- alive.” Sherlock’s eyes landed on Mycroft’s scandalised face and he scowled, “Don’t looked so shocked. You think Sebastian Moran can breach your security and I can’t? All it took was 50 quid to bribe the cabby and this!” He enthusiastically waved Mycroft’s security clearance card in front of his gaze. Mycroft snatched it from his grasp, giving him an incredulous look,

“It has my photo on it, Sherlock!”

Sherlock shrugged without ceasing his incessant glancing, “You should pay your guardsman more, brother dear.”

“Sherlock, what exactly are we-?” _BOOM!_ The explosion was so loud it felt like it had crashed into his bones. Ears ringing, head spinning, Mycroft looked wildly around. Dowling Street was still intact, the explosion seemed to have its origins in the street west of where they were. Mycroft moved to vacate the vehicle but Sherlock pushed him back,

“Stay here!” he shouted.

“Sherlock-! No-!”

***

Sherlock slammed the door of the car as broad suited shoulders shoved into him from every direction. clambering over each other to get to the so called  ‘code black’ security breach that, judging from the smoke, had started a fire,

“Not very subtle are you, Sebastian?” Sherlock muttered as he turned on his heel to scan the black security vans that lined the narrow street.

All of them had their car doors wide open. The security personal that had been occupying them all having rushed to the scene of the explosion. They all had tinted windows and so all appeared empty. Sherlock frowned before yet another harassed looking guard shoved into him, very nearly knocking him to the ground. Staggering to regain his balance, Sherlock just managed to register the sound of an oval shaped metal object rolling along the pavement somewhere to his left and shout “MYCROFT!” before the explosion beneath the car flung him back into the ground.

Feeling the crunch of his shoulder as it collided with the concrete, the explosion of the grenade blasted through Sherlock’s ear drums. Followed quickly by the shattering of the car widows as it crashed upside down onto the road. Sherlock rolled over and felt the residual heat from the explosion wash over him as he flung himself dazedly to his feet. Pain was searing his left cheek and the ringing in his ears seemed to pierce through his very ability to think as he desperately tried to blink away his blurred vision. Wildly searching for Moran in the chaos.

As his vision finally began to clear, Sherlock saw him a few metres a head. Readying his sniper rifle and clicking the trigger into place, Moran strode towards the crumpled hole in the side of the car that had once been the door to the back seat and pointed the gun at a barely conscious looking Mycroft.

“Well well, well Mr ‘Olmes.” Moran clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he pressed the rifle to Mycroft's forehead, “Do send me regards to the devil, won’t ya?”

Sherlock threw himself at Moran before his finger brushed the trigger, sending them both skidding along the hot tar. Moran flung away his rifle in an attempt to free up his hands to defend himself from Sherlock’s blind punches. 

Every nerve in Sherlock’s shoulder screamed when Moran threw him off, his back scraping against the road as he collided with its surface.  Sherlock scrambled to get to his feet, but Moran was quicker. His special forces combat training besting and blocking all of Sherlock’s strikes until eventually, after landing a kick to his solar plexus, Sherlock barely had the breath to dodge his second hit before a third kick floored him. Moran dived back towards his rifle- but it was too late.

Dozens upon dozens of black suited security guards were swarming into the street. Sherlock looked back at Moran, getting unsteadily to his feet to give him a triumphant glare, feeling warm blood drip down his face as he did so. But whatever small feeling of victory Sherlock had allowed himself when he’d seen the security personal rush to his brother’s aid vanished. Because it was _then_ that he noticed.

 Moran was wearing an identical suit to that of the 100s of security personal almost swarming around them.

The black suit looked slightly too big for him and Sherlock could see there was a bloodstain on the shoulder. But Moran still managed to shoot Sherlock a sneer as he produced a security badge and a pair of sun glasses from an inside pocket and decorated himself with them, before slipping quietly into the seething sea of identically dressed security personnel.

“NO!” Sherlock shouted, but the medics were upon him.

“It’s alright, sir.” A woman shouted in a horrendously patronizing voice.

“Get off me!” Struggling against several pairs of hands, Sherlock tried to push the medics away, but there were too many of them and his shoulder and diaphragm were becoming more and more agonizing with his every movement. As bodies and flames and heat swirled in a mess that surround him, Sherlock was forced to come to one inescapable conclusion.

Moran had got away. But he had not succeeded and that wouldn’t be good enough for either of them.

***

When Mary Watson eventually came hurtling onto the scene, she was greeted with the sight of her husband’s best friend sitting just inside an ambulance with an extremely disgruntled expression on his partially burnt and grazed face. Half his shirt was hanging off his shoulder as two ambos examined the bruising that coloured his pale skin swirls purple and red.

“Where’s my brother?” Sherlock barked at them, holding a tissue up to his profusely bleeding nose. Mary didn’t need to see closer to know that it was broken.

“He’s been moved to St Bart’s, sir. To the ICU.” One of the ambos piped up. Sherlock nodded and looked around. When he spotted Mary, Mary saw his eyes widen,

“What the hell are you doing here?” He almost spluttered.

“Good to see you too.” Mary gave him a laugh that had no humor behind it as Sherlock waved the ambos away and shrugged his shirt back on, “Are you alright?” She asked.

“Peachy. Where’s John?”

“In the car, couple of blocks away- Don’t worry!” Mary started when she saw Sherlock begin to get restless, “Irene’s in the car with him and Ella is with Mrs Hudson, if you were wondering.” The tension flooded from Sherlock’s shoulders for a moment but then,

“He got away Mary.” said Sherlock in a voice that was a pitiful attempt at emotionless. Mary felt her stomach clench,

“No.” She shook her head at him while he did his best to ignore her glare, “Mycroft?” she asked. Suddenly, Sherlock was scowling as he buttoned up his shirt, probably a little too aggressively,

 “He’s fine. Unfortunately. He’s in the ICU.”

“I heard.” Mary cocked her head to the side, frowning, “Any ideas where he’s gone? Moran? He has multiple properties in London-”

“All of which I will have Lestrade and his SWAT team of mildly competents sweep.” Sherlock answered, almost glumly.

“But Moran won’t go anywhere we know about.” Mary said as Sherlock tugged on his coat. Grimacing, as he got to his feet. He bent down, reaching inside the ambulance, he pulled out a duffle bag and handed it to Mary.

“Moran’s?” she raised an eyebrow at him, 

“His portable armoury- or what’s left of it. Found it in one of the security vans. I’m taking it to Lestrade.” They both jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s text alert. Reaching into his inside pocket, Sherlock pulled it out and looked at the screen, frowning.

“Is it word from Lestrade?” Mary asked, hopefully,

“No. It’s Molly.” Sherlock muttered, “Wants me to meet her at Bart’s in a couple of hours. Must be an issue with the DNA.” Sighing, he pocketed the phone and looked at Mary, “We need to go.”

***

Despite the fact that it was getting dark, and though she did her best to hide it by averting her gaze immediately, Sherlock still saw Irene’s eyes widen when Mary and himself had eventually made it out of the chaos that was the remains of the top notch security surrounding Dowling St and finally reached John’s car. Irene was sitting in the passenger seat with both her hands firmly in the pockets of her pants (she had changed back into the clothes she had been wearing when she arrived the day before) while John tapped his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel. His features becoming awash with relief when he saw them both.

Mary and Sherlock slid side by side into the back seat of the Watson’s small car after throwing Moran’s portable armoury into the boot. Sherlock’s nose still hadn’t stopped bleeding.

“How bad, Sherlock?” John asked, fixing him with a concerned glare so intense that it could have made any ordinary person guilty of their own injuries.

“Ordinary day at the office, really.” Groaned Sherlock, grimacing as he tried to adjust himself in his seat.

“SHERLOCK-!”

“It’s a couple of scratches, some light bruising and a fracture or seven. People live with worse.” Sherlock caught Irene’s eye in the rear view mirror. John rounded on him.

“Do you remember our agreement, Sherlock?” John shot at him.

“Which one in particular?” Sherlock muttered, still holding a tissue to his bleeding nose.

“The one where if anything happened with this whole Moriarty mess, you wouldn’t face him alone, again!”

“Yes well, in case you didn’t notice John we are dealing with Sebastian Moran not Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock snapped.

“That doesn’t mean you face rogue Special Forces assassins on your own!”

“No. It means that when I tell you and Mary to stay away and do not let Miss Adler out of your sight it is because I know that I am the only person of the four people in this car that that ‘rogue assassin’ will hesitate to kill. The alternatives being that your daughter grows up without one or both of her parents.” At this, John’s furious expression faltered and from the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mary look away from him. After a few moments it was Irene’s voice broke through the silence,

“So, he got away?” she asked. Sherlock hadn’t realized she had twisted around in her seat to look back at him. _How long had she been watching him?_ He wondered, with an unnecessary jump in the speed of his pulse. Meeting her gaze, he saw a good half of her forehead had turned almost completely purple with the bruise left by Moran’s boot. He clenched the hand that wasn’t holding the blood soaked tissue to his nose into a fist and Sherlock began mentally kicking himself for the small voice in the back of his brain that noticed the bruise made her eyes stand out.

“Unfortunately. Additionally, he didn’t succeed in killing my brother.” Sherlock’s voice was almost acidic as Irene turned away from him.

“What do you need, Sherlock?” John asked in automatic voice.

“I need you and Mary to get Miss Adler back to Baker Street and make sure she stays there. Do not take her anywhere, either. You need to leave, you don’t.”

“And what are you going to do?” Irene asked, a sharp irritable edge to her voice as her reflection stared him down in the rear view mirror. Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard her.  “Make sure Ella is safe. Check in with Lestrade. Tell him I want his most capable and least annoying officers to stake out Baker Street. No one goes in or out that the two of you are not completely certain of.”

“Sure you don’t want John or I to go with you when you go meet Molly?” Mary asked,

“Moran said he was coming back to kill Miss Adler tonight, I need both of you to ensure he doesn’t get close enough.” He replied. Mary nodded as John started the car and headed back towards Baker Street.

***

“Figured Sherlock would want me to drop it by.” Molly said, handing Greg the fresh DNA sample Sherlock had dropped by earlier that afternoon, “Said to tell you that it’s Sebastian Moran’s.” Molly watched Greg’s eyes widen,

“Really?”

Molly shrugged, “Apparently.”

“How the hell did he get this?” Greg Lestrade looked disbelievingly at the blood soaked cotton buds in the tube in his grasp. Bending down to look closer he said, “Looks like it was wiped off him-or someone-”

Molly shrugged, again. They were standing in his office at Scotland Yard. The muted telly in the corner flashing up updates of the situation at Dowling Street. Complimented by Lestrade’s police radio that crackled with a new frantic report from the field every few seconds.

“Bet you’re glad you’re not out there.” Molly said without thinking.

“It’s all big wig security for those gigs.” Greg said, taking another swig of the second coffee he’d had in the 20 minutes or so Molly had been in his office, “Local cops just become glorified traffic controllers.”

Molly smiled at him, “Still, glad you’re not out there.” She said. He returned her smile for a minute before he frowned again,

“Good thing I’m not. Otherwise I couldn’t chase down bloody non-existent assassins for Sherlock Holmes-” He dragged a hand down his face before he stood up from behind his desk, “Donovan!” After a minute, Sargent Sally Donovan poked her head into the office, frowning at the sight of Molly,

“Yeah, boss?” she said, warily. Greg walked over and handed the tube of blood soaked cotton buds and the file with the DNA information Molly had given to him to her, “Get a copy of this down to forensics. I think French Interpol caught this guy a few years ago. Get them to do a match up.”

“This guy? As in…?”

“Sebastian Moran.”

Sally scoffed,“As in the AWAL Colonel Special Forces Turned Specialist Assassin For Jim Moriarty Sebastian Moran? You’re kidding, right? He’s practically a folklore!  This isn’t going to be like Anderson’s Jack the Ripper case all over again?”

“Wish it was.” Greg said, glancing over at the TV.

“Greg, no one has seen this guy-”

“Look, Sally, Sherlock’s lied about a lot of things, but how his brother came to currently be in the I.C.U probably isn’t one.” Greg snapped at her.

Sally rolled her eyes, “Aren’t you just a bit curious as to how he got this, then?” she waved the tube around, “Because if he injured Moran and we’ve got the evidence- God knows that’s a grudge no one would want.”

“Thought you just said he was folklore, Sergeant?”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out.” Sally sighed and gave Molly a nod before leaving the room. Greg shook his head before looking back at Molly, “You off home, now?” He asked her.

“No. Gotta drop by 221b. I’ve lost my phone and I just want to let Sherlock know in case he tries to call or something. I keep trying to tell him, but he’s just been-” Molly trailed off, Sherlock’s despairing look when she’d asked about Miss Adler flitting across her memory, “distracted.” Greg nodded at her as they both headed out of his office.

“Well, Sherlock’s asked me to send some officers to stake out the place. They can give you a ride, if you want?”

“Oh- thanks- But I’ve got my car.” Molly said.

“I’ll get them to follow you, then. Probably safer, anyway.”

“Thanks Greg,” she smiled, “You be careful too, alright?”

“Try my best, Molly.” They had reached the lift that lead down to the carpark.

“That’s what worries me.” She laughed, slightly nervous as she stepped into the lift and gave him a wave.

***

Sherlock had only been gone an hour when Molly turned up at Baker Street with two of Lestrade’s officers. Mary became quickly irritated with them,

“You know the meaning of a stake out, guys? Not seen, not heard- out!” She barked at them. The officers quickly scurried off.

“Hi, everyone.” Molly said awkwardly, looking around the room.

“Hello, Miss Hooper,” Irene piped up from Sherlock’s chair.

“Oh, er-” Molly seemed to forget her words when her eyes landed on Irene’s bruised and battered features that had not been present at their last encounter.

“Molly-?” John frowned, “What are you doing here? Sherlock’s just gone to meet you- Is he with you?”

“Oh, what? No.” Molly looked confused by the question.

“Yeah.” Mary responded, her frown identical to her husband’s, “He said you text him.”

“No. I didn’t I-” Molly shook her head at them all, unable not to glance at Miss Adler “That’s why I came here. I tried to tell you this morning in the lab. I’ve lost my phone-“

“When?” John asked,

“Sometime last night.” Shrugged Molly with a sigh. Mary exchanged a wide eyed look with John as Irene slowly got up out of Sherlock’s chair.

“When, Molly? Exactly when?” Mary asked, her voice urgent.

“Er-? I had it when I finished work because I checked it when I clocked off, then I got home and I couldn’t find it.”

“Did anything happen, Molly? On your way home from work?” John continued, “Meet anyone? Someone try and take your bag?”

“What? No- Nothing like that- Why?”

“Just think.” Mary pushed. Molly squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again.

“No!" she repeated, "I mean, no. Although-”

“What?” prodded Irene. Molly looked at her. Staring wide eyed as her response tumbled out of her mouth,

“This bloke. He bumped into me. Nearly knocked me over- but that was it.” She insisted, “An accident. It was dark I couldn’t see his face. He had a thick accent…” she trailed off, her brow furrowed. Mary thought she could hear Irene’s breathing get sharper, or maybe it was John’s? “Oh yeah,” Molly continued, “He got into a really nice car. A black Audi, I think.” At Molly’s last words, quite a few things happened at once.

Irene’s face went pale, despite the obvious effort she exhausted to keep it expressionless. John looked like the wind had been knocked out of him, though obviously not enough to prevent him from swearing loudly before frantically grabbing his coat and heading for the door. Mary barely had time to register the sudden rise in her own pulse before she tore after John, reaching the door before him just in time to block his way,

“Don’t-!” she shouted. John was about to protest when Mary’s phone rang in her pocket and they all froze. Mary hardly even daring to breathe as she reached into her pocket and pulled it out. The caller I.D flashing Sherlock’s name before sliding the answer icon across the screen and pressing the loud speaker button. Every eye in the room fixed on her as she took a breath in before answering,

“Moran?”

“Worked that one out a bit too late, didn’t ya, love?” Moran drawled, “’ow long’s it been since that politician in Barcelona?”

“Not long enough.” Mary growled, “I was sorry to hear you made it out.”

“Yeah, well, turns out you don’t hit all your marks, love. Is that why you went all domestic?”

Mary scowled at the disgust in his voice, “What do you want, Moran? Where have you taken Sherlock?” Her voice was cold. Moran chuckled, but when he spoke Mary could hear spikes of frustration in his sneer,

“Tell Miss Adler, it’s my protection for what’s left of ‘ers and we’ll just see what happens, then.” Moran hung up and as Mary’s eyes met with Irene’s petrified wide eyed glare, she finally understood why Miss Adler had hardly removed her hands from her pockets since Mary and John had walked in on her and Sherlock that morning.

***

Sebastian Moran watched, more than slightly entertained, as Sherlock Holmes slowly came to. Blood dripped from his head just above his hairline where Moran had knocked him out. Not to mention the out pour from his nose which Moran had re-broken for the hell of it.

A smile twitched at his lips as Sherlock lunged wildly forward at him from the chair only to shriek with pain as he rebounded back into his slumped position. Chuckling, Moran unhitched himself from the far wall and crossed the four or 5 feet of space between them,

“Wouldn’t struggle too much against that wire if I were you, Mr ‘Olmes. You’re already loosin’ quite a lot of blood. Wouldn’t wanna sever those veins now, would we?”

Sherlock glowered at him and went to move against him again, only to once again screech with pain.

“Struggle more than your girlfriend,” Moran muttered, “Are you done, sweet cheeks? Cos see them senses ‘round your feet-?” Sherlock looked down at the half a dozen small rectangular transmitters scattered around the chair he was bound too, “You make any sudden move this place blows in minutes.”

“And your movements?” Sherlock groaned, “Won’t they trigger it?” Moran pulled out his own phone that contained the control for the explosives from his inside pocket,

“Not if I don’t want ‘em to.” He pocketed the phone and walked over to grab the chair from the wall to his left and placed it directly in front of Sherlock’s before sitting in it and leaning forward. His elbows resting on his knees as Sherlock looked right at him,

“Molly’s phone… if you’ve hurt her-” Moran waved away his barely audible growl,

“If I want someone dead, they are. If I torture them it’s because I’ve gotta do somethin’ while I’m waitin’” Moran pulled two paring knives from the back of his belt beneath his jacket and brought them down hard into Sherlock’s thighs.  Must’ve been quite effort for him to just groan. Gritting his teeth to muffle the scream. Moran sighed as he gripped the handles, feeling the warmth of Sherlock’s blood spatter on his knuckles as he snarled his next words into Sherlock’s face as it contorted with pain,  “I ‘ave way more satisfyin’ kills planned than that of yours and Jim’s little morgue gal. Tell me, Mr 'Olmes cos I am curious, did you know she took it back off ya? The flash drive?”

“Either way you’re not going to get it.” Sherlock breathed. Moran twisted the knife in Sherlock’s left leg, feeling the movement of his pain filled writhing through the handle of the blade. Sherlock gasped but was still trying to speak, “If you think Irene Adler will weigh the value of our lives- ah-” Moran smirked as he continued to twist the knife, but Sherlock continued, “My life- the chance to end yours-” Sherlock gritted his teeth as beads of sweat dripped off the end of his nose, “There is no scenario you can engineer where she won’t see hers as the most valuable.” Moran cut his manic laughter off with a final twist before leaning back in his own chair,

“Oh, I ain’t a fool like you, lover boy.” Moran chuckled, “I learned a long time ago not to trust that slut further than I could throw ‘er.” Moran crossed one leg over the other before finishing, “That’s why I’m relying on your friends to bring ‘er around.” And though Sherlock’s glower never faltered Moran saw a delightful flicker of fear dance across it.

\------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I hate? This idea that seems to be apperent in fics and au gifsets and 'mormor' stuff where Moran is written as an idiot. Like he's this puppy that Moriarty loves and adopts. No, Jim Moriarty does not hire idiots. Sebastian Moran cannot be an idiot if he maintained the company of Jim Moriarty because Jim Moriarty cannot stand idiots. Sebastian Moran is an internationally renowned and feared murderer and an idiot is not capable of that. Look how brilliant Mary is! And Moran is at least her equal. Sebastian Moran a proper force to be reckoned with in his own right. People forget that. He really isn't a fool ot this foil or love interest for Moriarty and I was just so tired of seeing that.
> 
> Also, yeah I put a bit of my own Irene meta in there for the heck of it. Irene is legit typical orphan/foster kid runaway type. The way she is so protective of herself but simultaneously quite reckless and seems unphased by a life on the move. Probs cos she had no home to begin with. The scene with her and Ella was sort of inspired by the scene in asib when Sherlock's like "Coventry" and she's like "oohh ive never been is it nice?" its one of my fave things cos I liked the idea that she did that with every random word that he said, revealing a little thing about herself every time cos she saw he wasn't listening. I have a headcanon that she probably told him her whole life story but Sherlock didn't hear. This idea that Irene reveals herself when people aren't listening or cannot understand is really interesting to me cos it sort of plays on that whole idea of how she struggles with protecting her identity without loosing it.
> 
> Probably getting a bit too much into my own metta there, sorry. But I hope everyone had a good chrissy and new year and happy birthday to Sherlock Holmes :)


	9. These Violent Delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Moran has given his ultimatum for the safe return of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler has a choice to make. Has Moran ensured she has nowhere to run? Or has he underestimated the people Sherlock cares for most?

Sebastian Moran’s phone call was ringing in John Watson’s ears.

  _“Tell Miss Adler, it’s my protection for what’s left of ‘ers and we’ll just see what happens, then.”_

Moran had to mean Sherlock. There was no one else.  Who had protected Irene Adler more than Sherlock Holmes? Other than herself, of course. He’d travelled thousands of miles to save her for starters. Despite the fact she had never struck John Watson as the type of woman people scrambled to protect- Her supposed demise was proof of that, alone. But Sherlock kept her “death” a secret for 4 years for God’s sake! Even when she had turned up in their flat all those years ago, asleep in Sherlock’s bed, John knew Sherlock never even considered the possibility of turning her in. No. No one had protected Irene Adler more than Sherlock Holmes.

No one had protected Irene Adler before Sherlock Holmes.

And now he was being held hostage by a black ops maniac whose second greatest desire seemed to be her head on a platter. John felt a rush of pity towards the Woman then. Any hard feelings she’d caused them or Sherlock aside, no one deserved this kind of choice.

But he wasn’t going to let Sherlock die because she made the wrong one.

John’s voice was shaking, “Moran, what does he want?”

Mary was still watching Irene Adler. He saw Irene glance towards the door from where she was standing near Sherlock’s chair, “That’s it! I’m going to find this bastard before he kills my best friend!” John shouted. Mary grabbed his arm, still blocking his way out the door,

“Moran will kill you, don’t be an idiot!” she snapped. Her voice strained as her grip tightened on his arm, though her eyes never left Irene Adler’s,

“Then, what are we gonna do, Mary?!” John’s voice was angry as he pulled his arm from Mary’s grasp. Mary shot him a look before returning her glare to Irene. Slowly, John turned his head to look at her too. Noticing then that she was breathing so raggedly she looked almost to be trembling,

“Where is it?” Mary asked, her voice calm though John could see cold determination in her eyes.

“Where’s what?” Irene shot back too defensively. Mary’s chuckle was hollow,

“Save your lies for Sherlock, Miss Adler. Where’s the flash drive?”

Irene was about to respond to Mary when, frowning, John quickly cut across her. Stepping between his wife and the Woman, “Mary, we don’t have time for this!” John raised his voice, “she doesn’t have it. We saw her give it to Sherlock yesterday- unless-”

Mary’s glare became exasperated as John turned around to look at Irene Adler again. Thinking of how close she and Sherlock had been sitting when he and Mary had burst in on them that morning. Slowly, the air left his lungs, “Oh-”

Rolling her eyes, Mary impatiently pushed past him until she was standing directly in front of Irene. Standing her ground, Irene matched her stare with one equally as resolute.

“Show it to me.” Mary demanded, but Irene’s glower remained a silent one. Mary sighed, “I won’t hurt you, Miss Adler.  I won’t even take it from you. Moran clearly wants you to deliver it. You and I both know he’s not the sort of man to defy. All I want to confirm is that you have it.”

Irene and Mary held each other’s glare for a few more good long minutes that seemed to silently scream as they passed by in the air around them, before John saw Irene’s bandaged hand tremor ever so slightly. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the red flash drive and held it out for them all to see.

“Okay,” Mary breathed out. Nodding at Irene who was staring intensively at the small red flash drive. Frowning as it sat in her bruised and blackened fingers.

“No.” Irene stated. Suddenly, her line of sight snapped back to Mary. When she spoke again, her voice almost a growl, “I will not deliver this. Moran will kill me.”

Mary moved to speak, but the words seemed explode from John’s chest before he could stop them, “He’ll kill Sherlock!” He shouted.

“No. He won’t.” Irene didn’t even look at him as she spoke.

“And you know that for sure, do you?” John retorted. No response. But John heard her breathing sharpen.

“Irene,” Mary’s voice was calm though the use of her first name made Miss Adler scowl, “You’ve made Sebastian Moran desperate. That’s no mean feat, but I’ll bet he believes he’s as good as dead without that flash drive. He also knows Moriarty will kill him if he touches Sherlock and, judging from that phone call, he’s decided who he’s more loyal to.”

Irene swallowed but when she spoke her voice was deadly, “I will not hand Sebastian Moran his freedom as a precursor to my own slow and painful execution.” 

“Do you want Sherlock to die?” John shot at her. Any control Miss Adler had maintained over her facial expression for the last 5 minutes evaporated as she fixed John Watson with a glare so incredulous, so offended, he might as well have slapped her. John even took a step back from her. Maybe it was the dim lighting of 221b, but John swore her eyes were shining when she finally spoke,

“Do not insult me, Dr Watson.” Irene breathed, “You do yourself no justice in the act.”

John glared at her for a long moment before his words came grinding through his clenched jaw, “He saved your life-” he growled.

“After he condemned it.” Irene shot back. She seemed to be forcing the words from the back of her throat, as if they were dragged kicking and screaming to her lips by the part of her that desperately trying to keep her alive.

“Moran has him because of you!” Molly blurted out and they all turned to look at her. All of them seemed to have nearly forgotten she was there.

“Sherlock woul-” started John.

“I am not Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson.” Irene snapped, “And I will not die for his sake. Not again. Not now. Not ever.”  Irene’s words rendered the room silent. A silence that pressed down on John’s chest until all he could hear was his heart slamming in his ears. _She wouldn’t,_ he thought _._ Finally, it was Mary who broke the silence,

“Nobody in this room is asking that of you, Miss Adler.” Mary said as she shot John and Molly piercing looks, before returning her attention to the Woman, “Nobody wants anything happen to you.”

Irene raised an eyebrow at her, “Oh, is that why I woke up this morning to be strangled by Sebastian Moran, Mrs Watson?” she snarled.

“If you think anyone – especially Sherlock – _wanted_ that happen to you than you’re not as intelligent as I originally credited you for.” Mary said.

Irene’s defiant glare wavered for a moment but then, “He will kill me.” she whispered, swallowing again, “He will kill me and make Sherlock watch, is that what you want?”

“I want Moran dead. Same as you.” Mary responded calmly.

“But you’re willing to risk my life for that desire.” Irene retorted ferociously, “I am not.”

“I am not asking you to die, Miss Adler.” Mary said, keeping her voice steady, “I am asking you for your help to, not only to rescue Sherlock, but save yourself as well.”

Irene simply scowled at her again ,but Mary kept talking, “Because let’s say you run, what happens? Sure, you’ll escape for now. But you’ve still got that flash drive. Even if you hide it, you’re the one that knows where it is. You’re the one Moran’s going to come after and, if Moran kills Sherlock,” John saw Irene’s eye twitch at the same time his stomach twisted, her hands balling into fists at her sides though she said nothing, “And If Jim Moriarty is still alive and Sherlock’s dead…” Mary trailed off and there was not a single sound of a breath being drawn in the room with exception of Miss Adler’s ragged breathing.

The implication of what Mary was telling Irene Adler clenched down on John’s stomach. Now his own hands were fists, furling and unfurling at his side. His second hand fear on Irene Adler’s behalf becoming an almost physical pain that he could see reflected in her now colourless face. Because, as much as he despised it on this occasion, Mary was right.  Moran was determined to destroy Irene Adler and he’d made, not only inevitable, but all but impossible for her to prevent.

This woman, already twice dead. Four years on the run from a world she had once had in the palm of her hand. Suddenly, she looked as small as little baby Ella. Tears making hardly visible tracks on her pale cheeks as the full weight of the possibility of what had to happen next overcame her.

And a small part of John saw something of what Sherlock must admire in her, then.

Because after a moment in which Irene Adler’s eyes flickered hopelessly over them all (John thought her eyes lingered on Sherlock’s chair) and down at her closed fist containing Moran’s infernal flash drive. She squeezed her eyes shut and when she opened them, John saw she was no longer crying.

No. It was more than that. It was as almost if she had removed herself completely from the minute that had passed before this one. And John might have been fully convinced by the detachment, had it not been for her hand that still shook when she opened her fist to reveal the flash drive, nodded and said in a nearly robotic voice with her eyes blazing,

“Shall we, then?” 

Mary gave her a pitiful smile in response and it was then John saw Irene’s hand was bleeding. Her elevated blood pressure causing fresh blood to seep through the bandages that John had put on her hand when Sherlock had left.

“Sorry-” Molly spluttered, “I’m really sorry. Can’t we call the police? Greg-”

“You’ve seen the news, Molly.” Mary said, turning away from Irene and pulling her car keys from her pocket, “Best we don’t involve them quite yet. I’ve got to go check something in the car. Molly, would you and Mrs Hudson look after Ella, please? I’ll follow you downstairs.”

Molly nodded. John moved quickly to follow them, but Mary stopped him, “Stay here a minute, love?” She asked, instructively. John desperately wanted to protest, “I’ll be right back.” Mary said, nodding pointedly in Irene’s direction. John nodded as Molly and Mary both left the room, leaving him alone with Irene Adler. Watching her for a moment John thought she looked as if she’d been emptied.

Cautiously, he grabbed a spare bandage he’d left on the table and approached her. To his surprise, Irene stuck out her hand before he had even reached her, still staring down at her feet as she did. Her mid length wavy hair falling around her face.

“I know where Sherlock is.” Irene said bluntly as John unwrapped the old bandage over the gash on her palm, “I know where Moran took him.” She laughed mirthlessly and looked up at him, “I was only there 3 days ago.”

John avoided her gaze. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. John focusing intently on wrapping the new bandage over the cut, “I’m sorry.” He said, finally looking up at her as he tied the knot in the bandage and returned her hand to her.

“Are you?”

Blinking at her, John couldn’t tell if it was a sarcastic remark or a genuine question, but he continued unabated, “For what I said- my outburst-” John shook his head, “When I said you wanted Sherlock dead- I didn’t-” He sighed. Folding her arms, Irene raised an eyebrow at him as he continued, “Look, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that. I know you don’t want-” he broke off, “I know you don’t want that.” He finished, rather lamely, scratching the back of his head.

“Are you sure about that?” There was a slight bitterness to her voice and John rolled his eyes, exasperated at her rhetoric.

“You and Sherlock.” He muttered, more to himself than her, “You never just bloody answer.”

To his surprise, Irene responded, “People only ever ask two kinds of questions, Dr Watson. Ones they already know the answer to and ones they can’t be bothered to find the answers to themselves.” 

John chuckled despite himself, “Yeah. You and Sherlock really do make the _perfect_ couple.” His mutter dripped with sarcasm, but from the corner of his eye he saw Irene almost flinch at his words. Before hitching back her smirk almost instantly.

“Oh, we’re not a couple.” She chirped, watching him expectantly. John rolled his eyes half-heartedly before meeting hers to match her smug expression,

“Yes you are.” He replied. Irene cracked a weak smile that didn’t reach her grey eyes. Such a similar colour to his best friends, they were rather unnerving in a way for John, because in that moment they had the same sadness to them that had more or less been Sherlock’s trademark facial expression since Jim Moriarty’s broadcast-Total and utter fear of your inevitable defeat.

John wanted to say something else to her. A part of him wondered what Sherlock would say to her if he were here. But then again, if he were here they wouldn’t be in this mess. Having been condemned to die himself, he was grateful in an odd way that she gave no air of being noble. Because death wasn’t noble.

Death felt like a fact that made you a fact. John remembered when Sherlock had committed suicide and he’d been watching the news. The way they all just simply stated ‘Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective killed himself today.’ And within 30 seconds they were onto the next story, as if that was all there was to him and the whole bloody mess of it all. Even more so, John had more than once considered (in his darker moments) that if he died in Afghanistan he would have simply been added to a tally of dead defence men. That wasn’t the point. No. Of course it wasn’t. But the worst thing about Irene Adler’s death would be that it was already a fact. The only people who knew or cared she was alive were in this room. All bar one, of course, and he would sooner die then let it happen.

“You can’t even say that I don’t have to do this.” She stated with a small hint of something like smugness in her voice. Blinking, John frowned at her, momentarily wondering if she’d seen the subject of his reverie in his face.

“I couldn’t.” he answered, "I wouldn't." Irene tilted her head up and, even though she was a good head shorter than him, the effect was that she was looking down on him. John shifted his weight uneasily.

“You’re an honest man, Dr Watson.” She said.

His laugh was hollow, “Wish I wasn’t sometimes.” 

“So do I.” she sighed, looking away from him. At that moment, Mary re-entered,

“Right, come on. I’ll brief you two on the way.”

“Ella?” John asked her immediately,

“Downstairs.” Without a second word John headed straight for the door and down the narrow staircase to his daughter.

***

Even though Mary knew she wouldn’t run, she still ensured Irene Adler remained in front of her as the three of them walked out onto the pavement of 221b towards the car. When they reached it John opened the door for Irene, his face nothing but grave as he barely succeeded in avoiding her piercing glare. Slamming the door shut, he grabbed Mary’s arm,

“We can’t do this, Mary. We can’t.” he hissed. Mary blinked up at him before fixing him with a glare,

“We don’t have another option, John.” She said, pushing past him and walking around to the back of the car to open the boot.

“He’s given her no choice. Maybe you could be okay with this. Maybe I could be one day,” John whispered at her, close on her heels, “But if you think Sherlock will ever forgive us if something happens to her- he won’t say, but he won’t. He just won’t.”

Forcing herself to keep her eyes away from her husband’s face, Mary was rummaging around in the boot. Squinting her eyes against the shadows cast by the summer night as she searched it.

“He won’t do anything when Moran slices him up into hunks, either.” Mary said, her cold voice, a sharp contrast to the warm night air as her hands finally found what they were searching for in the dark. John seemed temporarily at a loss for words but then,

“We don’t want Irene Adler’s blood on our hands, Mary. Sebastian Moran- he’ll kill her. We both know it.” John whispered desperately as Mary closed the boot of the car and finally met her husband’s unblinking glare that was simultaneously pleading and severe as she slung the duffle bag full of Moran’s abandoned armory from the chaos at parliament over her shoulder,

“He’ll try, darling,” She said, “He’ll certainly try.”

***

“Wakey wakey, Mr ‘Olmes!” Sebastian Moran’s sardonic chime tore into Sherlock’s throbbing skull so that, as he forced his eyes open and up to look at him, Sherlock imagined ripping his voice box from his throat, “You’ve got a text, sweet cheeks.” Suddenly, Sherlock’s own phone screen was swimming in and out of focus in front of his nose,

_I’m on my way – I.A.._

Sherlock’s heart dropped into his stomach before proceeding to contest with the throbbing of his head as it smashed against his ribs. _They wouldn’t-_ He felt more warm blood drip along the backs of his bound hands as he struggled painfully against the wires slicing into his wrists. Blood dripped down his face too and, though Sherlock could barely focus on Moran through the screeching pain in his legs, Sherlock knew he was grinning because he could hear him chuckling delightedly,

“Ya know, Mr ‘Olmes, contrary to popular belief, I like doing things cleanly and without fuss.”

A groan twisted its way from Sherlock’s throat as Moran pulled the paring knife painstakingly slowly from Sherlock’s leg. Every individual nerve in his thigh screaming in agony as the metal blade passed back through every single one of them,

“Torturin' has its uses at times, o’ course. But it’s messy.” 

Sherlock gasped, forcing himself to keep breathing. Focusing on Moran’s voice as the tip of the blade left the final layer of his skin. The depths of the wound burning as the air met it, feeling the warm blood pour down his leg beneath his trousers, “It’s so tedious too, ya know? I mean, I had to be so careful with Irene, wanted her to still be pretty when you see her die.” Moran sighed. Sherlock wanted to stop him from breathing ever again.

“You lay a finger on her and you won’t leave this room alive.” Sherlock managed to snarl feebly, but Moran continued as if he hadn’t spoken,

 ”Still, bodies are easier to clean up than blood. That’s the issue, innit?” Scarlet trickles of Sherlock’s own blood fell from the tip of the knife as it entered and exited his fogged vision. Moran waving it in front of him as he continued his incessant musing, “Where is he, Mr ‘Olmes? Jim Moriarty?” Moran pocketed the knife. Sherlock was glad for the intense nausea that prevented his retort as his own jagged breathing filled his ears. Spasms of pain mixing with the tempting tingles of unconsciousness as Moran continued, “Your apartment decor was a lovely front, Mr ‘Olmes, but I know you’ve found 'im.”

Sherlock was struggling to remain conscious, “Don’t think I know you, do ya? Well, maybe I don’t, but I know your contacts.” Moran chuckled again. Sherlock listened to his chair scrape as he leaned back in it, “Irene Adler thinks she does- knows ya, I mean,” Moran snickered, “she also thinks you never went lookin' for 'er. But we both know that’s not quite true, is it?”

A faint rush of adrenaline dragged Sherlock back from the edge of unconsciousness. Forcing his eyes open, he straightened up and willed his eyes to focus on Moran’s warped smirk as he leaned forward, “How did it feel when you realized that that bitch you love can never be safe as long as you do?” Moran whispered.

“You’re not a loyal man, Sebastian.” Sherlock forced the words out of his throat into the space between their faces, “You’re a murderer for hire who doesn’t even have the redeeming quality of deluding that what you do serves a greater purpose.”

Moran sighed as if he was bored, “Every man and 'is dog says your deductions are brilliant Mr ‘Olmes, but this is a bit disappointing- I’m good at what I do and I like being paid well for it.”

“Why are you so desperate to find him? Moriarty?” Sherlock groaned. At this, Moran eyed him for a long moment. Every second he didn’t speak, Sherlock railed against the pain in his leg. Desperate to stay conscious.

“It’s like I said,” Moran said finally. Sherlock gritted his teeth as he felt the movement of Moran’s fingers gripping the hilt of the other knife buried in the flesh of his left leg reverberate excruciatingly through every cell, “Bodies,” he drawled as he began to draw the knife slowly from Sherlock’s thigh so that it felt like his bones were burning, “are easier to clean than blood and I,” the knife was only half way out when Sherlock felt him twist it, “sometimes spill more than I mean too. So, it’s always nice to 'ave someone cleanin' up after you. See Jim, he wanted me dead. I’d gotten in 'is way one too many times, you can imagine. Prevented a few things. I had half the world’s intelligence agencies ridin' up my ass,” Sherlock was holding his breath to stop himself from screaming as Moran continued, “We each 'ad messes the other could clean so that’s how we operated. Even gave me this place. One of his spare properties. But now,” he yanked the knife from Sherlock’s leg and a screech tore away from his lungs, his vision going black for minutes though he could still hear Moran hiss, spitting in his ear as he snarled, “Now that little fucking whore took my life’s work and ransomed it to you, the police up my ass again because you just couldn’t just let me kill your god dammed brother and Jim Moriarty is nowhere in sight so I’m thinkin’ after I strangle Irene Adler right here, I’m gonna carve up your broken heart because whose gonna stop me?” 

“Oh, I do love an over dramatic introduction without having to ask.”

Moran’s face twisted into a grin and Sherlock’s heart bashed against the bones of his ribs as the sound of her voice floated towards them from the door in the corner of the small room.

“No,” The words fell hopelessly from Sherlock’s lips as Moran stood up, still fingering the blood soaked knife he’d drawn from Sherlock’s thigh, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Following instructions.” Irene stated, not breaking eye contact with Moran who clapped his hands together over the knife, a hungry edge to his voice that made Sherlock's skin crawl,

“Hello, sweetheart!” Cooed Moran,

“The one time you want to be obedient-” Sherlock muttered despairingly.

“Don’t get used to it.” Irene shot at him, though Sherlock could hear the tremor beneath the snark,

“Welcome back.” Moran sneered.

“You left the door unlocked. How considerate.”

Moran smiled at her, “Got something for me?”

“Have you ever known me to be unprepared?” she responded, reaching a hand into her pocket and producing the small red flash drive. Moran grinned,

“I don’t think anyone ever knows you, sweetheart.”

“You’re one to talk, Sebastian.” Irene responded as she held out the flash drive.

“She won’t have come alone, Moran.” Sherlock pointed out.

“You’ll die with a larger audience, then. Won’t you?”  

At that moment, Irene’s eyes slid from Moran to Sherlock. Desperately, Sherlock stared back, _Leave! Get out! Please!_ Her eyes widened as they swept down to his legs and the explosive sensors at his feet, her falter small before she hitched her attention back to Moran, “You’ll kill me as soon as I hand this to you.” she said.

Moran smiled, “See, you know that much about me.” he drawled.

“Irene, please.” Sherlock knew he was pleading, but she barely seemed to hear his whisper as she held Moran’s flash drive aloft before his eyes.

“Then, I want to say something before we get on with it.” Irene’s voice was careful, but not without fear. Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest as he watched her, “Give a girl her last words?” She chirped. Moran seemed to look between her and the flash drive before flicking the knife upwards to rest beneath her chin.  After a moment in which Irene barely flinched, he licked his lips and said,

“Go on, then.”

Irene’s eyes flashed as they darted to Sherlock, a smile dancing at the corners of her mouth before she closed her fingers around the flash drive, grinned up at Moran and announced with a purr,  _“Vatican Cameos.”_

_CRASH!!_

All Sherlock could do was hunch over as the far wall opposite to the three of them blasted inward. The taste of blood in Sherlock’s mouth becoming tainted with dust as the air around him became a whirl of dust and rubble, pieces of the house flying in every direction. Through the fog of debris, Sherlock thought he saw Moran scramble to his feet and fiddle with something in his hands, the abrupt pause in the beeping around Sherlock’s feet telling him Moran was deactivating the triggers that had been set off by the motion of the blast. Wildly, Sherlock searched for Irene in the chaotic wreckage before she came staggering into focus towards him,

“No!” he shouted and she stopped dead, “The sensors!” She was nodding as the shapes of John and Mary emerged from the darkness outside (Sherlock, surprised to learn he hadn't been underground). John, wasting no time, clobbering the side of Moran’s head and knocking him to the ground.  Close on his heels, gun drawn, Mary shot him in the shoulder so he quickly began to writhe among the rubble,

“Oh, please Moran, don’t get up.” She growled down at him.

“With my own gun, fucking bitch.” Moran spat at her feet, clutching his shoulder as blood trickled from his hairline. Rolling her eyes, Mary looked around and swore when she saw Sherlock though John was already rushing at him.

“No!” Sherlock groaned through gritted teeth at his best friend, “Get Lestrade, get bomb disposal. Don’t come near me until you do!”

“But Sherlock-!”

“DON'T WASTE TIME!” Shouting made his head spin but it was enough for John to scurry back thorough the hole in the wall. A few moments later- Maybe it was minutes? Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Sherlock?” He hadn't realized he’d closed his eyes until he opened them and saw her. Covered in cuts and bruises, her face was white as a sheet beneath the layer of grey dust and debris covering her skin. Standing as close as she dared to where he was bound, but not far enough away for him not to see that she was trembling, her eyes so wide and unblinking they were almost shining as she stared at him.

“It’s alright.” He managed, his voice shaking as much as she was with the pain blasting through his body. It felt like it could split his brain open any second.

“We need to get you untied-” Irene said, her voice a little breathless, “Your wrists-”

Sherlock didn’t need her to finish the sentence. He could hear the blood dipping onto the floor behind him - feel the warmth of it pouring down over his hands, “Moran dropped his knife, I saw-” she said and she moved away from him, Sherlock hearing low crunches as she searched through the rubble a few feet away from where Moran had fallen.

“Aren’t they sweet?” Moran chorused through a clenched jaw from the floor, before a gunshot fired and the next sound that came from him was a guttural groan,

“Be quiet. Next one won’t be a shoulder wound.” Mary said,

“You could only hit your mark at this range, love.” Sneered Moran before Sherlock saw Mary bring her foot down on Moran’s head and his body go limp.

“Sherlock-” she started.

“Keep an eye on him!” Sherlock barked at her as Irene continued to search for Moran’s fallen knife.

“He’s out for now,” Mary said.

“Hey,” John appeared once more, “Lestrade’s here along with half London’s police force by the looks.”

“Bomb disposal?” Mary asked Sherlock’s question.

“Yeah, they’re coming. Molly already called everyone when we left.”

“Don’t let any of them in here.” Sherlock growled.

“What-? But Sherlock-”

“Ah-! Miss Adler is dead!” Sherlock was panting with the effort of keeping his pain under control, “The last thing I need today is law enforcement finding out otherwise. The explosives are through the house. Tell them to go do their job!”  At that very moment, a group of S.W.A.T armored police came pouring in through the hole in the wall, Mary rounded on them,

“Out!”

“But ma’am!”

“OUT!” John disappeared into the sea of policemen as Mary moved her gunpoint from Moran’s head to the officers, ushering them out. Barely taking two steps away from him- But that was all Moran needed.

“Couldn’t have said it better.” He snarled and there was flicker of silver and brown in the air beside him before Irene staggered backward shrieking, clutching at the two knife blades that were now buried hilt deep in the side of her torso. Somewhere below her lungs.

For a split second, there was nothing. No heartbeat pushed blood through his veins. No breath passed his lips. Not a single sound breached his ear drums. Frozen. Stuck. Trapped. The only movement, his eyes as they held hers, burning into his skull until his whole being was alight and he exploded into the silence.

 _ **“NO!”**_ the word wretched itself from Sherlock’s lungs. Every single atom he was consisted of seemed to be screaming as Sherlock tore himself from the chair and flung himself across the room to land beside where she’d doubled over and crumpled to the floor on her knees amongst the debris. Aware vaguely that tearing himself from the chair had resulted in deep lacerations that were now pouring thick blood over the backs of his hands. _Pain. So much pain. He might as well have been drowning, there was nothing else here now._ Somewhere, in another world, Sherlock heard another gunshot and Mary swear – There was a beeping-

“You triggered the explosives.” Irene gasped, tears streaming down her face as a steady pool of blood formed beside her, “You’ve got two minutes- He did the same thing to- ” Sherlock looked up at Mary, but she was gone. Already shouting at the officers all around outside (and for John) to clear the area. Sherlock’s hands were still tied behind his back,

“HELP ME!” he screamed, though in the chaos outside no one seemed to hear.

“Get out-” Irene choked at him, “Go- you won’t clear it in time if you don’t.”

“I am not leaving you here-” Sherlock growled. Irene grabbed the bloody color of his shirt, almost pulling him to the floor, fighting to stay upright,

“And I am not giving Moran or Moriarty the satisfaction of this.” She snarled, “You can’t always save me and I certainly don’t need you to die with me, Sherlock. You’re nothing to anyone in hell-.” He stared at her. Wishing he could keep staring at her. Wishing that was enough. That she wasn’t right.

“I never said-” Sherlock stammered, “I couldn’t-I,”

“GO!” she pleaded, “I know.”

“I wasn’t talking about Mora-”

“NEITHER WAS I” Irene’s body hemorrhaging, but her large pale eyes held his for a fragment of a second before she pressed her forehead against his, “Go. You’ve barely got a minute.” Sherlock couldn’t move, “I’ll see you in hell one day, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock sucked in his breath and pulled away from her. Salt stinging the scrapes on his face,

“I look forward to it, Miss Adler.”

“GET OUT!” she choked as Sherlock threw himself to his feet and staggered to clear the room.

***

Surrounded by officers and medics, John was screaming at Mary two streets away from the house, 

“YOU LEFT THEM BOTH?”

“I COULDN’T CARRY THEM BOTH, JOHN! I HAD TWO MINUTES! I NEEDED HELPI HAD TO FIND YOU AND GET EVERYONE ELSE OUT!”

“GREAT! THEY CAN BOTH BLEED OUT FOR TWO MINUTES BEFORE THEY GET BLOWN TO SMITHERINES!”

“I SENT OFFICERS IN THEIR, JOHN. I’M NOT AN IDIOT IT JUST TOOK A SECO-“ **_BOOM!_** The earth beneath their feet shook as flames lit the 3am darkness two streets to their left. Officers and medics rushed every which way around them, but after a few moments of utter chaos, Mary saw John finally breathe again as he spotted his best friend being wheeled towards them on a stretcher.

“SHERLOCK!” John fought through the sea of officers and disgruntled terrified civilians in nightwear with Mary close on his heels. When they reached them, Sherlock was barely conscious, muttering incoherently,

“How is he?” John asked the medic, all of them walking beside the stretcher,

“Lost a lot of blood but he’s stable. Seems to be in shock. Leg lacerations will need stitching immediately though.”

“Where’s the Woman?” Mary barked at the two grubby looking shaken officers trailing behind the medics carrying the stretcher, “I told you to go back for both of them.”

“We didn’t have time to retrieve the dead, ma’m.” the officer was speaking quickly but John rounded on him,

“But she wasn’t- Any idiot with google can tell you it takes at least an hour to die from s knife wound-!” They had all stopped in front of the open back of an ambulance. Some more twitchy medics hurriedly placed an oxygen mask over Sherlock’s mouth and nose.

“Sir, we barely had 60 seconds and Mr Holmes was wounded. We had no visual of a female and we had to clear the area!" John just gaped at him, “Your friend needs medical attention. We will retrieve any bodies when the area is deemed stable.” The officer suddenly looked sheepish, “I’m sorry. If he had a friend in there- I’m sorry.” The officer turned and walked away.

 “You have no idea.” John muttered, though only Mary heard him. Resting her hands on his shoulders as he dragged both of his hands down his face before he leaned over Sherlock’s stretcher,

“Sherlock, can you hear us? Sherlock-?” John asked. Sherlock lifted a hand, waving away John’s words as if they were flies buzzing around his eyes,

“Regrettably,” Sherlock’s voice was weak through the oxygen mask, “My ears are perfectly functional.”

Mary walked around the other side to lean over him. In the dim light being cast from the inside of the ambulance, Mary thought she could see thin clean streaks in the dirt on his cheeks,

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” Her whisper was thick. But when Sherlock responded, his voice was as empty as if anything that it could have been filled with had bled from him,

“You both did everything you could.” He said.

“Sherlock, Irene- she’s-” John started, but Sherlock cut him off,

“Irene Adler died 4 years ago, John. She was abducted by a terrorist cell and beheaded.”

And before either Mary or John could even muster a response, they were pushed aside and Sherlock was hurried up into the ambulance. Driven away within moments. Leaving them in his wake, John watching after him, his face fallen like a crumpled newspaper. But after a minute, John walked over to Mary and bundled her up in his arms. Burying her head in his shoulder, Mary wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling his breath on her neck, as if he was inhaling her.

“What have we done, Mary?” he breathed.

Mary wished she could say that they rescued Sherlock and that it would be the right words to say, but there weren’t any.

“Hey,” she whispered into his shoulder, “I love you.”

John's laugh was strangled, “God-” he breathed, “I love you. Don’t you ever-”

“Shhhh- I’m here.” Mary murmured and they stood there like that for a moment. Together. Despite the inferno. The screams. The chaos. The loss. The regret. There they were,

“He’s not going to be okay, is he?” Mary asked in a low voice as they pulled away from each other. John shook his head at her with her arms still wrapped around his neck,

“No. No, he won’t be.”

***

Irene Adler’s body was hemorrhaging violently. Whether it was from the pain, or the amount of blood gushing from the wound beneath her ribs, she couldn’t tell. All she could do was make considerable effort to not spend the last 60 seconds of her life screaming when no one would hear her. Though, there wasn’t much else she could do at this point. Somewhere, in the single cell of her brain that wasn’t screaming, she considered she could survive the blast. But she knew Sebastian Moran too well to know that he’d engineer an explosion that would be anything but fatal.

_50 seconds_

Irene bit back the scream trying to escape her lungs as her body contracted in on itself around the knife between her ribs.

It was too bloody ironic, really. All the effort she had gone to so that she wouldn’t die in this room with Sebastian Moran and there they both were. Barely three feet apart and bleeding into the rubble. The fact that Moran was dead was something. Satisfying? No. Worth her life? She had hoped it wouldn’t be. But it was something. Something she could do nothing to change, now.

_40 seconds_

But Moran had destroyed her until the only option she had was to return to Sherlock Holmes. Irene Adler had always charged handsomely for the more pleasurable tortures in life and if there was a form of torture she wished she had never found pleasure in, it was Sherlock Holmes. As much as she’d tried to convince herself in the past, it was no consolation that when she died here a part of him would likely die too. No point denying that now. Yes, Irene had always found pleasure in inflicting pain. But there was no victory in the pain you inflicted if you shared in it. No. That was just loosing. Now, here she was, paying the heaviest price for her most pleasurable torment.

Sebastian Moran had destroyed so much of her and now he was going to obliterate what was left to her too. It was all too bloody ironic.

_30 seconds_

There was blood in her mouth now as the world spun around her. Debris was digging into her spine.

And perhaps the most ironic morsel of it all was that she just saved Sherlock Holmes’ life.

Was it because she wanted to die? No. Did she feel she owed him for saving hers? Absolutely not. But when that dagger landed in her side and neither she nor Mr Holmes could hardly stand. What else could she have done? By the time she would’ve tried to crawl out, she wouldn’t have cleared the bomb radius at all. Yes, it would’ve been nice to think help would have arrived. But it didn’t have time and neither did they. _Look at you…Dying for Sherlock Holmes. How pitifully romantic._ But it wasn’t. She was dying because she had underestimated Sebastian Moran’s resolve to kill her and despite her best efforts, even in death, he was going to succeed. But that was an utterly deplorable reason for Sherlock Holmes to die too. He wouldn’t escape guilt that easily.

25 seconds

Still, at least a beheading would have been quick. This wasn’t going to be. This particular avenue to the afterlife was certainly not going to be ideal but-

“I thought he was never going to leave!”

_No._

“Oh, Sebastian.”

_Oh God, no._

 “Shame. You were so useful. But daddy warned you not be so impatient.” Said the disgustingly playful voice that made Irene Adler want to scream. The beeping stopped, but Irene decided she would prefer the inferno at its end to this silence filled by nothing but the devil’s musings,

“Quickly, get her up I still want to give them the show they paid for.” Hands grabbed at her and she wanted to struggle, but dislodging the knife could be fatal and, despite it all, she didn’t want to die. But the pain that blasted through her body when the men moved her decimated what was left of her will to remain conscious. So that her vision of him dissolved into inky blackness as he leaned over her to taunt in that harrowingly familiar Irish drawl,

“It’s been too long, Miss Adler. Did you miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. My computer crashed and I lost 3/4 of the chapter and had to start again. I enjoyed putting lots of references to asib here and I love John Watson and his empathy and compassion. John is probably my favourite version of Watson ever and it's not just because Martin is such an amzing actor. It's because I just love how much he cares. How much he cares for Sherlock and Mary and Mrs Hudson. God, his best friend commits suicide and pops up two years later and he eventually forgives him because he knows Sherlock needs him. So many versions of Watson are dumb or whingy or egotistical but John is just this rock and I really resent when people call him weak or stupid. Anyway, that's all. Oh and I dunno if this is wierd to say but I was really happy when I killed Moran cos what a fuckin dick :)


	10. The Problem With Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Moran is dead and once again Sherlock believes Irene Adler is too. Little does he know that not only is she alive, but is caught in the web of his arch nemesis. But what does Jim Moriarty want of the Woman?

The anesthetic trickling through Sherlock Holmes’ veins did nothing to alleviate the iron clad knot that twisted down in the pit of his stomach as he willed himself not to vomit, having absolutely no desire to feel any emptier than he already did.

The plastic bag of clear fluid to his right shook, sloshing as he sat up and removed the thin needle from the top of his right hand and grabbed his grubby clothes from the bedside table. Right on cue John appeared at the end of his narrow hospital bed. His face etched with worry and the apology he would not stop repeating,

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Leaving.” Sherlock made a point to avoid John’s pitiful gaze as he tugged on his shirt.

“Sherlock- you can’t. You need to rest.”

“Because you’re an expert on what I need.” Growled Sherlock beneath his breath as he did the buttons of his sleeves up over the bandages on his wrists.

“Maybe not.” John sighed exasperatedly, “But I am a doctor and you’ve just been through some very serious physical trauma, Sherlock. You need to stay here under observation for at least another few hours.”

Sherlock chuckled, a humourless sound that scraped against the bones in his chest, “Just because of the physical trauma?” Sherlock fixed John with a glare that rendered the small private hospital room silent. Bar the incessant harmony of werring and beeping from the machines beside his bed.

“Sherlock-?” John began.

Sherlock's coat still smelled of dust and blood as he shrugged it onto his shoulders. Biting back another wave of nausea, he headed for the door, wincing at the spasms of sharp pains that shot down his legs from the stitched knife gashes in his thighs and pushing past John. However angry Sherlock was at him, a small part of him appreciated that John did not try to stop him from leaving.

***

Molly Hooper’s sigh of relief could not be heard over little Ella Watson’s sobs as the two of them reached a bedraggled looking Mary in the foyer of St. Bart’s hospital. Spotting the cuts on Mary’s face, Molly’s eyes widened. They didn’t look deep but her clothes seemed to be covered in a layer of dust.

“Are you both alright?” Mary said a little breathlessly as she quickly took Ella from Molly and cradled her in her arms.

“Yeah, we’re fine." Molly replied, "She hasn’t stopped crying since you and John left though. What about you? Is everyone okay?”

Mary tried to shrug off her concern, giving her an unconvincing smile,

“John’s with Sherlock. We’re fine.”

“Oh, thank God-” Molly let out the breath she’d been holding, but her heart was still pounding. Rocking on the balls of her feet, she looked anxiously around the bustling foyer. Half a dozen police officers were hanging around in a cluster behind Mary. All of them looked grim, the harsh floresant lights of the hospiatal deepening the shadows beneath all their eyes. Molly looked back at Mary and it struck her that Mary looked exhausted too and something else-

“How’s Sherlock doing? Is he okay?” As Molly watched Mary suddenly looked pale. Even her comforting of baby Ella seemed to deflate. Molly’s heart stopped, _why did she look so sorry?_

“Mary-? Is Sherlock- Is he?”

“He’s fine. He’s fine- A little bruised and battered. He’s stable, though. Physically-”

Molly frowned, she could feel her heart pounding in her throat, “Physically-? What-?” She stopped, “Where’s Miss Adler? Is she injured too?” Molly tried for an edge of hope to her whisper, but it was drowned by the dread in the question. Mary bit her lip and shifted Ella uneasily in her arms before muttering,

“We couldn’t get them both out.”

“WHAT?” Shaking her head incredulously, the group of officers looked over at them. But Molly was staring unblinkingly at Mary. After a moment where she squeezed her eyes shut and opened them, she lowered her voice, “Is she-?”

Mary shook her head and Molly clapped a trembling hand over her mouth. It was moments before she could form her next words, “Did he _see_ -?” Avoiding her eyes, Mary bit her lip again and the air drained from Molly’s lungs.

 _The way he looked at her,_ she had thought about that so much these last few days. How Sherlock had looked at Irene Adler like he was terrified. Terrified of how he struggled not to look at her. Terrified of not being able to look at her at all. A specific brand of fearful gaze that Molly Hooper knew all too well-

Because it was the way she looked at him.

And now he couldn’t look at Irene Adler at all.

There was a lump in Molly’s throat she desperately tried to swallow as she stood with Mary. The silenced punctuated only by baby Ella’s sobs and the rustling and murmuring of the officers. A siren or two faded in and out of hearing range on the street outside. Somewhere beyond her line of vision, an elevator chime announced its arrival.

“Molly! Mary-” Molly tore her eyes away from Mary to land on Greg, striding towards them with John close on his heels. Their faces so wary and grim, the elevator may as well have dragged them up from hell.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Greg asked, “Either of you seen him?”

“He should be in his room?” frowned Mary. She looked at John who was dragging a hand down his face as if to pull the exhaustion away from his mind, “John?”

“He left about 10 minutes ago. I tried stopping him but- hey” John stopped when spotted his baby daughter in Mary’s arms. Ella was still sobbing quietly, though the sight of his daughter seemed to temporarily relieve the weight on John’s mind. Reaching out his arms, Mary passed Ella to him and John ensured she was settled in his arms before continueing,

“I tried stopping him but he was-”

“Sherlock?” finished Molly, glumly.

“So, he’s run off?” Greg looked around at all of them.

“Mycroft’s in the ICU. Maybe he went to see him?” suggested Mary

“Don’t really think Mycroft would be his go to person right now, love.” Said John, looking wearily up from baby Ella. They all stood in silence for a minute. Molly pressed her lips together, but it was Greg who broke the silence,

“It’s a start anyway.”

***

On this occasion, Mycroft Holmes thought his little brother looked particularly burdened. So much so that he might have been especially concerned for him, had it not been for the intensely painful bruising on his abdomen. Not to mention his fractured ribs. At least Sherlock could walk after his encounter with Sebastian Moran, movement was sheer agony for Mycroft. But, running his eyes over his paler than usual looking brother at his bedside, part of Mycroft’s mind couldn’t help but observe that movement seemed to be torturous for him too. As if he was trying to move against a mind that was willing his limbs to cease. An uncomfortable sense of déjà vu creased Mycroft’s forehead as he further observed that, for the first time in days, Sherlock was not trailing Miss Adler in his wake. Mycroft swallowed, raising his chin slightly to address his little brother,

“What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply at the sound of his voice. As if he was forgetting to breathe unless spoken to and it was a moment before he answered,“I need you to ensure that Moran’s remains are destroyed.”

Mycroft blinked at how strained his brother’s voice was, “Sherlock, he’s just a bunch of charred bones and muscles-” Frowning, Mycroft watched his brother turn even paler, even a tinge of green colouring his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut against Mycroft’s words, “What more do you-?”

“Just burn it, please-” Sherlock reopened his bloodshot eyes, “Make him nothing.”

“They’re remains, Sherlock- the explosion-”

“I don’t _need_ you to tell me what the explosion did to his body,” cut in Sherlock, Mycroft’s eyes widened, his brother’s words sounding as scorched and destroyed as Moran’s remains themselves, “I read the morgue report, I just want you to ensure the body is completely disposed of, please.”

Mycroft listened to his breath as it passed through his nostrils, eyeing his seemingly broken little brother for some time before giving him a curt nod, “Consider it done.”

Sherlock nodded, turning away from Mycroft’s bed and burying his hands in his pockets, heading out of the Intensive Care Unit. A nurse came into the room to check on Mycroft’s beeping machines, but before she reached him Mycroft called out in a voice only just loud enough to carry across the distance between him and his brother, “What about the other remains?”

Sherlock’s body went dead stiff before he turned and gave his brother a look so intense, that Mycroft had to fight the urge to shift uneasily in his hospital bed. The grey blue pupils of Sherlock’s eyes, burning even brighter in contrast with the bloodshot veins currently scarring their surface, bore into Mycroft, “Do you want them destroyed too?”

Sherlock said nothing but continued to glare at his brother, his anger almost a palpable pulse in the air around them.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” For all the good that apology did, Mycroft may as well have tossed a pebble into a pond in the hope of creating waves, “I did offer her protection.” Sherlock’s eye twitched and he took a few steps back towards his brother, Mycroft realizing then that perhaps he had created waves, after all.

“Feel free to lecture me about protection,” Sherlock spat the word, hissing at him through gritted teeth, “When you’re not bound to a hospital bed, brother mine.” And without another word, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode from Mycroft’s private room. Actually managing to make the pain in Mycroft’s chest slightly less tolerable as he did.

***

Hands tingling, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead- Sherlock knew he was going to be sick and he didn’t have long. His grief aside, he had more than a suspicion it was a side effect of the codine and possibly the trauma.

Walking straight past the gaggle of clueless police officers in St. Bart’s foyer, Sherlock barely managed to stagger out onto the pavement before knees buckling, stomach muscles clenching, throat burning, heart pounding, he spewed a rather pitiful amount of clear bile into the gutter. Panting, he wretched another few times with no results before his stomach seemed to finally realise it was completely empty.

It took another a good few minutes of Sherlock sucking down the cool predawn summer air to soothe the dull acidic burn in his throat, before his shaking tapered off enough for him to straighten up and move to lean on the dirty red telephone box to his right.

To his surprise, he saw small photos of himself plastered to the inside windows of it, the stained faded words, “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” scribble, scrawled, faded and stained all over it. His stomach muscles clenched once more at the idea of a shrine, _Anderson-_ The sound of a siren made him jump, but it was just an ambulance. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the light summer breeze cooling the sweat on his brow. Though it did nothing for the rest of it.

Of all the emotions human beings felt for millions of years, grief had to be the most useless of them all. It achieved nothing. How you felt didn’t change the outcome of the past. Couldn’t change the past itself. No amount of sadness, regret or guilt could alter reality. On the contrary it made reality clearer in a horrendously insensitive way that really didn’t matter at all.

The burning in his throat, the knot in his stomach, the sting in his eyes, the anger in his veins and the weight in his chest that seemed suffocate the pounding of his heart, they were all symptoms of this useless emotion. The one that seemed to consume every atom he was made from yet never touched the objective reality around him. People walking to and from work, buses and cars wooshing passed him and none of them or their occupants would know. How could they? Why would they?

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, keeping his lower back against the telephone box as another wave of nausea flooded over him.

What made grief so useless was its ability to make reality unbearable without ever touching it. The temptation of cigarettes gently teased at the edge of his mind and he began to think that something stronger might-

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock opened his eyes to roll them at the sight of Detective Inspector Lestrade rushing towards him with an ashened face Molly Hooper stumbling to keep up behind him,

“Sherlock, we’ve been looking for you everywhere-” started Molly.

“Well, you found me. No doubt the finest moment of your detective career all year.”

Lestrade ignored his comment, “You need to come with me right now.” Ordered Lestrade. Sherlock fixed him with an incredulous look, though Lestrade seemed to swim before his vision.

“Consulting office is temporarily suspended, detective inspector. You’ll have to actually do your job until further notice.” Sherlock frowned at how muffled his own voice sounded in his ears.

“Uh huh, thanks for letting me know but you’ve still got to come with me.” Suddenly his arm was around Lestrade’s shoulders, Molly supporting him on his other side.

“Where am I going?”

“Station. So you can sign off on your witness report on Moran and get Interpol savy. Then, you’re being checked straight back into hospital.” grumbled Lestrade as they guided him to the car. Sherlock rolled his eyes,

“Where’s John and Mary and Ella?” He said.

“I just text Mary. They’re going to meet us back at the hospital.” Molly’s voice was shaking as they lowered Sherlock into a nearby police car. She closed the door, getting into the passenger seat beside Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t pay attention to whatever he chattered into the radio before the car headed back to Scotland Yard.

***

Mary Watson thought it was odd that all the private rooms on Mycroft’s floor were empty as they passed. John’s sigh of relief was loud when Mary showed him the text from Molly. They were standing around Mycroft’s hospital bed in his room. The both of them (well, technically three if you counted a very squirmy and distressed Ella in John’s arms) having just listened to Mycroft’s recount of his conversation with Sherlock. Mary shot John a pained expression, which he mirrored back tenfold,

“Bit of odd of him, though. Usually doesn’t care about corpses.” frowned John,

“Irene Adler wanted Moran gone, John. He’s just-” Mary didn’t want to finish the sentence and, judging from the way Mycroft and John’s glances flickered downward, she didn’t have to. The faint beeping and humming of the hospital version of silence filled the air for a moment before Mycroft spoke,

“Tell me, John. With my brother in his current state, and given the nature of your previous occupation in medicine, how did you see fit to let him walk out of this hospital?” Mycroft drawled. John gaped at him while Mary felt herself bristle.

“Because he- Why didn’t you!? He came here before he left- God shhhhh, sorry.” Ella had begun crying in John’s arms. Dragging a hand down her face, Mary started,

“Look, both of you. It doesn’t matter. Lestrade found him and is bringing him back, okay?” They both nodded, Mary noting that the phrase ‘he’ll be fine’ didn’t quite make it into her statement.

***

Sherlock looked like a mutinous 3 year old as he sat slightly hunched in the chair across from Greg Lestrade. On the desk between them sat his unsigned witness statement, while a tired looking French Interpol officer sighed impatiently from the corner of the room. Before he sat down, Lestrade placed a plastic cup filled with water on the desk. Hoping that Sherlock might drink it and start looking less like a new corpse that had escaped the morgue instead of the hospital. The only other sound in the room was the buzz of the BBC news from the small TV in the corner that Molly was standing next to. Reporting on the casualties (aka Sherlock) of the explosion at Moran’s from the steps of St. Bart’s.

“Give me a pen,” demanded Sherlock

“Hang on a second Sherlock, I just want to check these details.”

“Well, we’re going to be here for hours.” Sherlock puffed air from his cheeks, But Lestrade was frowning as he flicked through Sherlock’s brief statement.

“This just doesn’t add up.”

“That’s because its words not numbers, detective.” retorted Sherlock

“Sherlock, if your brother was Moran’s target. Why would he kidnap you? Everything we know about this guy- That’s not his style. So, why was he torturing you without even issuing a ransom to your brother if your brother was the target?” mused Lestrade.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Seemingly expressionless but Lestrade could sense a sort of dull fury behind it, “I was being tortured, inspector. It’s all very fuzzy.” Sherlock’s voice came out as dead as he looked.

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.” said Lestrade.

“That’s the spirit.” replied Sherlock

“At least tell me who the other body was. We cleared all civilians from that area. Yet we found a second set of remains.” Something about Sherlock recoiled at that but as Lestrade watched he kept perfectly still. Too still, “The remains of a second person were found near Moran, Sherlock. You have to have some idea who that was. They would have been in that room with you.” Suddenly, Lestrade was aware that Sherlock was holding his breath, as if it was all he could do to hold back the truth. Lestrade was about to continue when,

“Boss, more Interpol are here.” Sergeant Sally Donavon had appeared in the doorway of Lestrade’s office. The bags beneath her eyes as bad as his own.

“Ah- tell them I’ll be with them in a minute.”  Lestrade waved her off but Sally shook her head,

“They’re demanding to see the body.”

“And I want a minute please, Sally!”

Sally rolled her eyes before they landed on Sherlock, “Oh, hey freak." she chirped, "You look worse than usual.” Sherlock stood up abruptly, turning his head to glare at her so that Sally scowled and took a step back from him.

“Hey! Everyone calm down!” Now Lestrade was standing up,

“I would like to go back to hospital.” Snarled Sherlock.

“You didn’t half an hour ago!”

“Well, that was before I had this painful experience watching you lot think.”

“Sit down, Mr Holmes.” The man from Interpol’s voice was gruff as he laid a forceful hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “Right now, you are not only part of the small handful of people to meet this guy and live, but you’re also the last person to see him alive-” Sherlock chuckled. A bitter manic noise,

“Does that make me special?”

“The sooner you give us answers, the sooner you can leave, Mr Holmes. Now, sit down.” Lestrade saw Sherlock glance towards the door where Sally was blocking the exit, then to himself and the Interpol officer, “We all want to find Jim Moriarty,” the officer grumbled. Lestrade saw Molly give Sherlock a pleading look. It took a moment but resignedly, Sherlock resumed his seat.

“Okay, let’s get this over with.” Said Lestrade warily. But even as he fixed his eyes on Sherlock, Sherlock wasn't looking at him. In fact, he seemed to be deliberately focusing on the telly, though his eyes didn’t seem to see it.

Stricken, that was the word. Sherlock looked like he hadn’t just lost something last night, but someone. Lestrade knew it was connected to the second set of remains and he was going to find out who they were.

***

Consciousness came to Irene Adler slowly and without peace, as if she was being wrenched from beneath the surface of the ocean before she needed to come up for air. She was in a hospital, the dull rhythmic beeps in her left ear told her that much before she had even felt the scratchy sheets against the skin of her arms. The rest of her felt numb. Frozen. Yet her heart pounded in her ears- _morphine and adrenaline._ There was another sound too. A sound that made her want to keep her eyes closed despite her reawakening, it was the sound of a second person breathing and she knew exactly who it belonged to.

Slowly, inevitably, she opened her eyes and turned her seemingly heavy head to face the dead eyed smirk of Jim Moriarty, dressed impeccably in a deep black Hugo Boss suit as he stood beside her bed,

“Good morning, Miss Adler!” he drawled with apparent delight, “Sorry to wake you up prematurely,” he relished the word so Irene’s skin crawled beneath the layers of hospital sheets, “but I have quite a busy schedule.” Her bed was upright so that she wasn’t lying flat. Making it easier for her to glower at him as the morphine numbed her nerves, preventing her from speaking though she could feel the adrenaline burning it away.

They were in a small private room. Only consisting of the bed she was in and a single chair. Irene’s eyes darted to the closed door to their right before returning them to his wretched smirk.

“Thank you for getting rid of Sebastian,” he made a sound akin to ‘ew’ as he walked around to stand at the end of her bed, “he was getting oh so inconvenient. Especially when he captured you,” Jim shook his head dramatically, “I thought he was going to ruin everything,” he clapped his hands together and grinned at her, “But look at us! Alive! Killing you this time was sooooo much easier. I mean, Moran did most of it. Bless! I just fixed the details as usual. No biggie- this time I only had to convince our little sweetheart that you were gone. You’re already dead to everyone else.” He added, giggling in a twitchy way that made Irene want to hurt him, but he’d practically paralyzed her between the drug combination and what she could feel of the poor dressing of her knife wound.

“You should see him it’s so _pathetic_. Not to mention unattractive,” he trailed off with a flourish and sighed, “Somehow I don’t think he’ll return the favor of your hospital visit.” Irene’s heart seem clench in her chest as he flashed her a gleeful grin.

“See that’s the problem, Miss Adler. The real problem is that even when you die people still miss you. They still _love_ you. They’ll build their makeshift shrines and compose their sad little violin ballads because they still love you.” Jim scrunched up his face in repulsion, “You can torch someone’s reputation completely, but if they’re loved enough, sooner or later it won’t matter.”

Jim dragged his fingers down his face in exasperation. It made his eyes pop out of their sockets so he looked like some kind of warped broken doll, “All your hard work, it means nothing. See, I thought I just wanted Sherlock to admit that he was me after I destroyed him,” he chuckled manically, “but that’s not enough- It’s not enough and I realized it too late. So I had no choice but to let Sherlock go through the motions of his little fall.” He stopped smiling, “Let him stir things up a bit. It was fun to watch. Especially when he got captured.” Jim’s voice faded in the manner similar to someone enjoying a flashback of a fond childhood memory. Irene’s hand muscles ached to ball into fists as he continued,

“Now, I understand the only way to prove that he is me _is_ destroying him. Obliterating everything he is- head, heart and soul.” He pulled a face that was a grotesque parody of pity and shrugged, “And the best way to do that is to destroy _everything_ he loves. Even if you don’t quite get there, he’s still a bundle of fun. Little Charlie Magnussen showed me just how gorgeous that could look. But looks can kill.” He chuckled but Irene had found her voice,

“Then why keep me alive?”

“Grief is just the love’s sad ugly cousin, my dear. I don’t want him to love you. As long as he loves you, Mary, John- even the little one- Ella he’s just boring and distracted and I want an interesting fight. I thought I had to destroy his reputation to make his friends hate him to do that. No.” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “I just have to destroy his relationships with the people who _love him_ and ta da! There he is and there he goes!” His voice, so artificially joyful suddenly changed into a manic growl, “I’m going to burn him, but this time you’re all going to be the flames.” He giggled excitedly, “So, what do you say girlfriend?”

Irene’s face contorted with disgust, her mind racing with the blood that raged through her veins. Sherlock, Dr Watson and Mrs Watson, they had all fought to protect her. Even Miss Hooper showed concern. Two out of four of them had killed for her for goodness sake! Yes she was “dead” but as much as it pained her to admit, it wasn’t for their lack of trying to prevent it.

And Irene’s stomach twisted as a simple niggling thought wormed it’s way to the front of her mind, _what had she done to deserve that protection other than associate with Sherlock Holmes?_

 It was true, Sherlock had never asked for her thanks and for a long time she wouldn’t have given it to him either way. He could have been blamed for her plight in the first place. It was technically him who condemned her to die (though the actual culprit was smirking at her this very second) and certainly Sherlock had not saved her this time around.

But this time she _had_ asked him. Three days ago she walked into 221b and asked him to find Moran for her. Yes, she’d convinced herself (and him) that it was beneficial to both of them- But _this? This definitely wasn’t._

 Irene swallowed knowing that she would be dead if she refused, but she was dead anyway and, whatever false guarantee of life Moriarty could threaten her with, that prolonged road to death was not worth the soul of Sherlock Holmes. Nor it’s obliteration.

“No.” Moriarty raised an eyebrow at her response, “I refuse.”

“Let me put it simpler. Either we resume our little business venture into the destruction of Sherlock Holmes or you die. Properly.”

“That’ll be the day.” Irene matched his bored tone, her voice hoarse, but steady. Jim’s eye twitched, but his voice dripped with skepticism when he spoke,

“Are you really going to let him mope around forever in pitiful prayer that your refusal will save him?” 

“You’re not going to destroy him.” 

Jim rolled his eyes at her words, “Why? Because the power of your _feelings_ will save him?” he jeered.

“You don’t understand him well enough to destroy him.”

“Your faith in him is so predictably disappointing.” Sighed Jim.

“Perhaps. But my faith is not in him. It’s in you to underestimate him.”

Jim Moriarty glared at her unblinkingly before an icy chuckle escaped his lips. 

“You talk big, James." Irene continued, "Moran abducting me _ruined_ everything? Clearly, you didn’t know I was alive in the first place, or maybe you didn't think it was worth your attention, but then you realised your little scheme with my camera phone didn’t take my head, after all. Sherlock stopped you. He saved me and stopped you.” Irene felt like laughing but kept her voice deadly, “Do you know what that makes me?”

Jim puffed his cheeks out as if he was bored, rolling his eyes, “Do tell.”

“Living proof that Sherlock Holmes is beyond your destruction.”

And Jim Moriarty’s eyes flashed, his falter minuscule, but Irene continued, adrenaline screaming through her veins as she fought to control her voice, “Mr Holmes calls you a spider because of the elaborate web you weave, but you know something about spiders, James? They seem scary with their dead eyes, the way they hide weaving their webs, making people squirm, but in the end,” she let the words roll off her dry tongue, “In the end they’re easily squashed.”

A smile curled Jim Moriarty’s lips that didn’t reach his black eyes as he dragged them over her, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he leaned toward her,

“Digging your own grave, Miss Adler” he drawled,

“I’ll be sure to add it to my collection.” She growled back. Holding his gaze with no intention of wavering, adrenaline coursing through her. His smirk remained unchanged

But after a moment, Jim sighed with the air of an exasperated parent and shook his head, “Alright, then.” He unbuttoned the second button of his suit and reached inside. Irene wanted to flinch but after a moment he produced a phone. Hitting speed dial, he pressed it to his ear and said, “Plan B boys. Clear the floor. I don’t like messes.” Irene felt she could move but she didn’t dare while he was still in the room.

“You know for all Sebastian’s inconveniences he was right. My life would be easier without Mycroft Holmes. He’s just down the hall from you, you know that?” he chuckled as his fingers danced across the screen of the phone, “It would have been preferable if you had just agreed and tried to escape later but,” he shrugged, “You made your choice, I will be accommodating.” He sniggered as he pressed his index finger to the screen one final time and re-pocketed the phone. Irene heard a beep from somewhere around her naval.

_No-_

“What was it you told me once?” The beeping continued. A second by second rhythm that made her adrenaline fueled heart crash against her ribs and turned her breath into sharp stabs in her chest, “Oh, that’s right,” he grinned, “ _Explosive, it’s so you.”_ Irene felt a scream sting at the back of her throat but she clamped her mouth shut,

“Goodbye Miss Adler,” He gave her a wink as he left the room, “Always a pleasure.” Irene waited as many seconds as she dared before tossing the hospital blankets aside, the residual morphine reducing the control of her limbs to that of a three year old. However, this became the least of her worries when she lifted her surgical scrubs to find an improvised explosive device strapped to her torso above Moran’s poorly stitched knife wounds. A timer flashed green below her abdomen.

4:39 seconds.

And despite both the artificial and natural adrenaline smashing her heart into every bone in her body a slight smile curled Irene Adler’s lips,

 _For all Sebastian’s inconveniences,_ she thought, _At least he was smart enough to only give me two minutes to die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I hate about A LOT of interpretations of Irene Adler? It’s that so many “work” for (more like are controlled by) Jim Moriarty. I hate that. Partly because it takes away from her signature independent intelligence and cunning but mostly because there is literally nothing in ‘A Scandal In Bohemia’ that says she was connected to him at all. Even when I watched ASiB in 2011 I got annoyed at first because I thought ‘Great. Another one.’ But when I looked closer I relized that Lara’s Adler called under her own steam. Technically, she had the power in that relationship and I nearly hit the roof with joy because finally, an Irene Adler unafraid of Jim Moriarty. An Irene Adler who was manipulated, yes. But not controlled by Jim Moriarty via blackmail or threats about her feelings for Sherlock *rolls eyes* (if there is one trope I despise it’s that). Still, I hate Adler/Moriarty loyalty associations of any kind so I wanted to burn that bridge but I think at this point Lara Pulver Irene Adler’s life she wouldn’t stand for it anyway. No freaking way and that’s why I probably love her more than Sherlock does. Additionally, you kind of get a taste of my Moriarty theory for S4 here. I basically think he’s either gonna kill everyone or alienate Sherlock from everyone but most likely both. Also, the red telephone booth at Bart's is real, I recently went there myself :)  
> Also, this chapter has been quite a bittersweet weight on my chest. I put off writing it for a while (sorry) because it was so heavy (and I was overseas). I’m generally a positive person so forcing myself to feel negative emotions for long periods of time is quite exhausting so I always wait until I have a straight block of time to do it. I wrote this for 9 hours yesterday after I heard Terry Pratchett died. Channelling my grief for Terry (one of my favorite authors since I was a kid) into Sherlock’s for Irene so he inspired me to write one last time. R.I.P Terry Prachett. Thanks for reading :)


	11. The Cost Of Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler has a bomb strapped to her chest. With three minutes before St Bart’s Hospital goes up, can she stop the detonation? Will she live to warn Sherlock of Jim Moriarty’s plan?

Molly Hooper’s brow furrowed as her eyes were drawn to the small television screen in Greg’s office at Scotland Yard. It showed a pretty reporter standing outside of St. Bart’s Hospital, but what concerned Molly was that she’d just seen at least a dozen doctors and nurses exit the building in the background behind the reporting. Unusual for so many staff to clock off at once...

“Could you just stop mucking about and tell us what your real connection to Moran is, Sherlock!”

The shout tore Molly’s eyes away from the screen.

“He’s dead, inspector. Whatever connection your tiny mind incorrectly insinuates that we had hardly matters.” Sherlock replied in a voice as devoid of life as his features. Molly looked him up and down.

Greg Lestrade was on his feet. Surveying Sherlock with his arms folded in the manner of a frustrated overworked parent. Sitting resolutely opposite him, with beads of sweat trickling from his hairline, was Sherlock. Ghostly pale apart from the purple bruises and grazes slashed across his features and his blood shot eyes sunken into his skull.

Molly’s stomach twisted. She’d never seen him like this. Even that day all those years ago when Sherlock had asked her to help him fake his death. Molly had even seen him after one or two failed illicit drug experiments, but nothing like this. 

No drugs. No plan. This was just him. This was Sherlock with a piece of him missing. A piece of him obliterated. A piece of him he’d apparently had to look on helplessly while it was blasted away and he couldn’t even say it out loud because he was still protecting her. Even now she was gone, he wasn’t giving her up.

Molly wished with all the fibres of her body that it was easier to doubt what Irene Adler meant to Sherlock. But if there was one thing she’d learnt from him, it was never ignore an obvious fact.

“Greg-” Molly began squeakishly as he turned his head to look it her, “Moran’s dead. Sherlock gave you a statement-” she took a breath without moving her eyes from Sherlock, “Surely that’s enough?”

“Actually, Miss Hooper.” The French Interpol officer took a step towards her direction so he was standing directly behind Sherlock’s chair, “It’s not.” He paused, frowning as he looked her over, “Forgive me, but how are you relevant to this case?”

Molly had barely uttered the beginnings of an explanation before both Sherlock and Lestrade chorused, “She’s a friend,” almost perfectly in unison,

“And believe me, Officer Fauket.” Sherlock half growled, “If you remove her forcefully or otherwise from this room, you will also be removing me.”

Officer Fauket ignored Sherlock’s statement and pulled a plastic evidence pouch from his inside pocket. Squinting, Molly saw it was something red and plastic. Half melted though it was, she could just make out that it was a flash drive.

“This is Sebastian Moran’s personal portfolio.” Said Officer Fauket, “Would you like to explain, Mr Holmes, how it came to have your DNA on it?”

“No.” Sherlock chirped, “I wouldn’t.”

“So, you expect me to believe that Sebastian Moran just gave you his personal diary and then kidnapped you to get it back?”

Sherlock let out a derisive laugh, “Impressive.” He muttered.

Officer Fauket raised an eyebrow at him, “What is, Mr Holmes?”

“20 years, is it? On the force. I wonder, officer. How many years of that have you spent hunting Moran? Actually, no. I don’t. Because unlike you I don’t need unauthorised interrogations to tell me what I need to know. 10 years. Maybe 9? Moran was shortly detained by French Interpol in 2005, but he escaped. Since then you’ve been obsessed with catching him. Otherwise you wouldn’t have boarded the earliest train from Paris to London this morning wearing the same coffee stained shirt from yesterday. Buttoning your jacket does not conceal it when you lean over. You’re exhausted. You’re excited because the man you’ve been hunting for so long is dead and you want the credit. Otherwise what’s the point of the last decade you’ve wasted? And so your wretched little mind actually thinks incriminating me in association with Moran will satisfy your bitter disappointment that you no longer have the opportunity to take that credit.” Sherlock stood up, glowering at the officer so that he took a step back from him.

“Sherlock-” Greg started but Sherlock was hissing through gritted teeth. Speaking as if each word falling from his mouth was a dagger being ripped from his chest,

“Sebastian Moran is dead. He is gone. Any consequences for his actions were destroyed along with his body. There is no arrest. No trial. No reckoning and no retribution for what he has done.” Sherlock’s face was inches from Fauket’s, who shifted his weight uneasily before saying, surprisingly calmly,

“But there is an explanation for how your DNA is on that flash drive. Why Moran abducted you and issued no ransom to your brother. Despite your brother being his target and then there’s Moran’s fresh blood you so easily supplied to inspector Lestrade yesterday afternoon - the one we used to identify his remains that had traces of another set of DNA that just so happens to match with traces we found on the flash drive. You’re right, Mr Holmes. I am not as brilliant as yourself. But I don’t need to be brilliant to see that you’re protecting your real connection to Sebastian Moran.”

Molly watched Sherlock falter. It was barely a fraction of a moment, but it was enough to make the corners of Officer Fauket’s mouth twitch upward.

“That’s enough.” Greg raised his voice slightly, walking around his desk to step between Sherlock and Officer Fauket, “This is finished. Officer, expect Mr Holmes’ signed statement within the next 24 hours-”

Officer Fauket sniggered, “Your reputation precedes you, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Probably.” Greg snapped at him, “But if you had bothered to familiarize yourself as well with Sherlock Holmes’ reputation as mine, you would not be accusing him of associating with Sebastian Moran. I’m allowing you and your boys here out of diplomacy, but this incident is under my jurisdiction. This interrogation is over.”

Officer Fauket rolled his eyes just as Sally Donavon reappeared in the doorway of the small office,

“I’ll escort him out, boss.” Sally said, “What about the rest of them?”

“Tell them we don’t require their services and if they really want to see a body they’ll get out of our way for the time being.”

“You got it,” Nodded Sally as she and Officer Fauket left the room.

Greg let out a sigh and turned to Sherlock, “Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry about that. I hate these Interpol assholes. I had no idea that’s what they wanted from you. Off the record though, your connection to Moran. Whoever- whatever they are. Are they a concern?”

And for a second, Molly saw the saddest of smiles tease at the corner of Sherlock’s lips before he looked away from both of them and replied, “No, inspector.”

“Okay then,” Greg nodded, eyeing Sherlock for a moment, “Let’s get you back to hospital.”

***

John Watson managed to rub his eye with the free hand that wasn’t nursing baby Ella as the three of them stood in the foyer of St Bart’s hospital.

“Want me to take her, love?” Mary asked, nodding at Ella’s sleeping form splayed against John’s shoulder. John nodded, cautiously transferring Ella into Mary’s outstretched arms, though she remained blissfully asleep. Sighing, he looked out across the foyer towards the main entrance doors. Early morning sunlight was leaking through them, dancing between the silhouettes of patients, officers and patrons as they entered the hospital. All of them puffy eyed and yawning as they passed where John, Mary and Ella were standing. John drew his eyes back to his snoozing daughter in Mary’s arms and brushed her forehead lightly with his fingertips,

“He’ll be back soon, John.” Mary said, “We’ll make sure he’s okay and then I think we all need to rest.”

John withdrew his hand from Ella’s forehead to pull it down over his face, “Except he won’t be okay, will he?” Shaking his head, John turned away from Mary for a moment.

“John-”

“No, Mary,” John hissed, “That’s the truth. We both know it. We have to talk about this.”

“We will, but not here.” Mary whispered back. But John couldn’t bite back the question that had been tearing at his conscience for the last four hours,

“Did we kill her, Mary?” John asked in a stifled whisper, “Sherlock- We told him we’d look after her. But instead we manipulated her into agreeing to her own execution. We even drove her to Moran’s house for God’s sake!”

Ella stirred and John tried to lower his voice, “Don’t worry, Sherlock” John’s voice was drenched in sarcasm as it rose, “We didn’t really kill her we just gave her a lift-!”

“JOHN!” A few of the officers still lingering in the foyer looked over at Mary, but she was glaring at him ferociously as she spoke,

“We didn’t kill Irene Adler and we didn’t manipulate her. _We_ didn’t.” She hissed. John leaned his head closer, “Moran abducted Sherlock and made sure there was only one way to even have a chance at saving him. He didn’t give any of us a choice, John. That’s what _Moran_ did. All we did was try and protect her. _Moran killed her, John._ I saw it. I took my eyes off him for a second and-”

“Hey, hey” John lifted his palm and rested it on Mary’s cheek, “I’m sorry.”

Mary adjusted Ella slightly. Placing her free hand on top of John’s on her cheek, “And you can feel sorry, love.” She turned her face slightly to kiss his hand, “Feel sorry, awful, and angry- You’ve lost someone you knew. At the very least, someone who someone you care about cared very deeply for. You even have the right to grieve. But you do not have the right to hold yourself solely responsible for the loss. Okay?”

John smiled at her. At least, he tried to. But his face felt stiff, “See, the thing is, Mary- killing Magnussen is one thing, but from what you described-” John felt himself grimace as he took his hand away from Mary’s cheek, “I don’t think Sherlock’s ever seen anyone he cares about die before.” John trailed off, unclenching and re clenching his fist at his side, “It’s- I remember Afghanistan- It’s not easy to begin with and with her he- She was the onl-”

It was Mary’s turn to hold his cheek, shifting baby Ella in her arms once more while she slept, peacefully unaware, “We’ll help him get through this, John. You will help him. You always have and you always do.”

“Not always.” He sighed and Mary looked like she was about to retort when an ear splitting buzzing assaulted the stillness of the foyer. Both of them jumped. John saw Mary’s eyes widen and look around as Ella’s shrieking began mixing in with the chaos. The foyer was suddenly filling with people all cramming and shoving one another to get out the door. Taking a step closer to Mary so the only thing between them was their daughter, John shouted, “THAT’S THE FIRE ALARM” as the panicked sea of patients, visitors and patrons all pushing forward to the door threatened to engulf them,

“WE BETTER MOVE” Mary agreed, bundling a screaming baby Ella closer to her chest as a small torrent of fully armed police officers cut through the crowd beside them. Looking over his shoulder. John saw they were headed to the stairwell. He sniffed the air and frowned. He couldn't smell smoke, but he didn’t have time to question it. There was a young boy of about 7 in a hospital gown to his right with his entire right leg wrapped in plaster, barely standing against the tempest of people. There were tears streaming down his face, butJohn couldn’t hear his cries for the scream of the fire alarm.

“Get Ella out of here! I’ll find you outside!” Mary looked like she wanted to argue, but Ella was shrieking. She turned and headed straight for the doors just as John grabbed the boy’s hand and hoisted him up into his arms, “Hey, you’re okay!” he tried to be reassuring but he had to shout to hear his own voice,

“Where’s my mum?”

John could only just make out the boy’s sobs as they were nearly bowled over by the terrified surge of people pushing towards the door. They were nearly out, “We’ll find her, alright?” He said.

The kid nodded at him just as they reached the doors.

***

Nausea was threatening to overpower him again as Sherlock got into the passenger seat beside Lestrade in his police car, despite all but emptying the limited contents of his insides earlier that morning. Swallowing, Sherlock turned his head to look out the window, trying not to wince as he adjusted his leg. The summer sun was shining weakly against a cloudless sky. Reducing the dew soaked sidewalks and roads of London to warped reflections of the reality that occupied them. Sherlock squeezed his stinging eyes shut as they drove past. Listening to the damp hum of the traffic as it sloshed all around him.

The police radio crackled and Lestrade picked it up, “Go-”

“Fire alarm set off at St Bart’s hospital, sir-” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open in time for Lestrade to shoot him a glance, “Nearly everyone’s been evacuated, sir. Fire department is nearly on the scene.” The officer sounded young,

“Any injuries?” Greg replied.

“It’s a hospital, sir.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “Any injuries from the fire?!”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Keep me posted. I’m on my way.”

Sherlock’s mouth felt dry. He wasn’t breathing again. He twitched at the sound of Molly’s phone ringing.

“It’s Mycroft,” Molly said as she frowned at her phone screen just as Sherlock twisted in his seat to watch her hold it to her ear,

“Hell-?” Sherlock watched the colour drain from Molly’s face, jaw dropping as her breath seemed to catch in the air in front of her, “How-?”  Sherlock listened, but Molly’s phone was too soft. _Was Mycroft hurt?_ Sherlock reached his arm out to grab the phone, but Molly had already shoved it into his out stretched hand,

‘Answer it!” she squeaked.

***

Irene Adler threw all the weight she could muster into her elbow. Feeling a slight piercing sting as the glass of the fire alarm panel smashed against it and the bomb strapped to her torso beeped menacingly beneath her surgical scrubs.

Buzzing shrieks answered her efforts immediately, filling her ears and reverberating against her bones as she staggered up the deserted hospital hallway. The residual morphine in her blood felt like weights anchoring her limbs, even blurred her vision slightly. But at least the only thing she could feel of her reopened stab wound was the warm blood pouring down the side of her body as she almost dragged herself, panting, up the corridor. 

Poor stitching, morphine, no one around to help- Irene almost laughed at Jim Moriarty’s efforts. All this just to kill Mycroft Holmes. Well, blow him up to be more exact. The bomb strapped to her torso, though heavy, was not huge. Small explosion radius-

“Hello-?! Is there someone there?!”

 Irene exhaled sharply as Sherlock’s brother’s disgruntled distressed cries came from the room just ahead of her. A groan escaping her as she threw herself into its doorway. Noticing the half open elevator doors as they whirled past her blurred peripheral vision.

From what she could see of Mycroft Holmes’ expression when she entered his room, it was equal parts horrified and shocked.

“Where’s Sherlock?” she breathed as she reached his bed,

“Mis- Miss Adler-?!”

“WHERE?” Irene panted,

“With Miss Hooper and Inspector Lestrade.” Mycroft spluttered.

“Do you have a second phone?”

“Of course-”

“Get the police here now and hand me the other phone- MOVE!”

Mycroft pressed a phone to his ear as he tossed Irene his spare, “Miss Adler, what’s going-?” Irene lifted up her shirt. Seeing Mycroft’s eyes widen, Irene glanced down.

3 minutes 28 seconds.

“He won’t answer me-” Mycroft started, but Irene found Miss Hooper’s number and had already pressed the phone up to her ear. Her heart leaping into her mouth when the phone picked up,

“Hell-?”

“Pass your phone to Sherlock, Miss Hooper.”

“How-?”

“JUST DO IT”

“Mycroft-?” His voice was like a jolt to every cell in her body.

“ _Sherlock-_ ,” Irene felt her own voice break, the urge to slap herself rising like the lump in the back of her throat. She swallowed, “Jim was here. I’m at St Bart’s.” Dropping the phone at her side, she turned and headed out the door. Pulling off her shirt with her other hand as she went.

“There are officers in the building! They’re coming!” Mycroft shouted after her.

If this bomb was on a timer. It shouldn’t detonate if she removed the mechanism binding it to her body. It was a long shot, but Jim had drugged her and injured her. He hadn’t been counting on her being mobile.

A part of Irene felt like laughing once more as she realised the vest that was housing the bomb device was Velcro. Raising her arms, she moved to pull the bomb up over her head-

Fire blasted through every atom of her. Fighting the urge to double over, she let out a shriek. Her arm movement tore at her reopened knife wound above her ribs. Each layer of tissue screaming as she forced her arms to lift the vest the rest of the way over her head.

Somewhere ahead of her there was a banging. But Irene’s vision was tunneling and she could feel fresh warm liquid pouring down her side. Gritting her teeth, Irene yanked the vest away from her body. Her vision, now too unfocused to make out the red lights of the timer, she willed her legs to move, stumbling the rest of the way to the half open elevator.

Staggering with the bomb in her left hand, it threatened to over balance her. But her shoulder slammed against the doors of the elevator just in time to break her own fall. Gasping, she slid down it. The cool metal against her back alerting her to the fact that the upper half of her body was completely naked.

This would be Jim Moriarty’s second attempt at insuring her death and there wasn’t an inspiring amount of odds indicating he would fail. But (and perhaps it was the pain gouging at her mind) if the only act of repayment she could accomplish, with blood soaking through her trousers onto the hospital floor, was preventing the death of Mycroft Holmes. At least her own would be a bittersweet failure for the world’s only consulting criminal.

With a groan, Irene dragged the bomb over her legs. Just making out the beeps over the shrieks of the fire alarm as she did. Bracing herself, she threw it into the gap in the doors of the elevator.

Panting through her teeth with the effort not to scream at the white hot pain striking each nerve in her left side, Irene heaved against the sliding door so it crawled towards the wall. Finally closing it with a dull thud and a gasp just as a door down the hall to her right burst open and four fully armored officers exploded into the hall.

“Mam!” One of them was in front of her face. Swimming in and out of focus with a rifle raised in his right hand, “Where’s the bomb?”

Irene gestured behind her to the elevator she was leaned against, “Please tell me you can get me out of here in less than a minute.” She groaned. The officer seemed to catch her drift,

“Grab Mr Holmes, you’ve got 60 seconds!” he shouted to his officers, “Jonesy, it’s in the elevator!” The officer who was obviously Jonesy appeared at her left to pry open the door,  “Sorry about this, miss,” muttered the officer in front of her. Irene could just see his eyes dart to her no doubt bloody bare torso beneath his visor screen before he pocketed his rifle, lifted her up into his arms and indicated with a nod for his team to follow him. Listening to Mycroft’s moaning and groaning directly behind her as she was carried swiftly down the stairs.

Irene hadn’t noticed that she had been drifting in and out of consciousness until she came to her senses on a narrow stretcher in an ambulance. She was sitting upright. Her bare back leaning against a cool wall, while two ambulance officers knelt in front of her stitched at her knife wound. Evidently leaving her clothes off until they finished stitching, but judging from the slight scratching feeling, her blood saturated surgical pants still covered her legs.

The pain in her torso felt like a mass on her bones. Even the deep breaths she tried to push through her lungs to weaken the searing pain licking at every nerve in her body, only seemed to fuel it. The smell of disinfectant filled her nostrils and she let her eyes darted around the ambulance without moving her throbbing head.

Directly in front of her, Mycroft Holmes came into focus. He too was sitting on a stretcher, looking exasperated as he frowned into his phone,

“I apologise, Greg.” He was saying, sounding half bored, “Sherlock has had quite an,” he paused, “unpredictable few days. I am sorry he threatened to shoot you.” The crease in Mycroft’s brow deepened, “And stole your police car.” He glanced over at Irene and caught her eye, “And forced you and Miss Hooper from the car.” He paused, “I honestly _can’t_ tell you what’s gotten into him.”  Irene managed to raise an eyebrow, though it was an effort to keep her eyes open, “I’ll talk to him when he gets here.” Rolling his eyes, Mycroft finished with a sigh and hung up.

And as if the universe was a comedy of cues, an almost breathless Sherlock Holmes appeared in the open doorway of the ambulance. His eyes wide and shining as they, almost immediately, found hers.

The only thing in that seemed to move in that entire finite moment where their eyes met was her heart as it crashed painfully against her wounded ribs.

“Miss,” came one of the ambulance officers voices from far away as Irene fought the urge to grimace, “Miss, please try and remain calm. This wound will keep losing blood if we don’t keep your blood pressure down and you’ve already lost quite a bit.”

Heat rushed to Irene’s cheeks, despite the pain, and she leaned forward off the wall of the ambulance. Watching Sherlock bite his lip in a failed attempt not to smile, “We’ve nearly completed the stitching. Last one.” Said the ambulance officer. Irene winced at the pulling sensation at her side though it was an oddly satisfying one and the medics quickly placing a large adhesive bandage over her wound.

“Some of this for you too,” said the taller one. Irene flinched slightly at the unexpected stinging sensation in her shoulder, “Morphine to help with the pain, okay? I’ve given you quite a lot so you’ll likely be out soon.” The two ambulance officers stood up and turned around,

“Oh! Pardon me, sir.” Said the shorter woman, “But only immediate family are allowed inside the vehicle at this time.” Sherlock hopped up into the ambulance and pushed straight past the medics, tugging off his coat as he went, before crouching down directly in front of Irene and wrapping it around her shoulders.

The world swayed before her eyes as the morphine bubbled through her veins. But his coat was warm against the bare skin of her back and she felt herself smile as he fussed gently over it, insuring it was resting comfortably on her shoulders. Meanwhile, she just drank in the sight of him. Bruised and battered with dark shadows beneath those shining pale eyes that hadn’t left hers at all since he’d knelt in front of her.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock-! He’s my little brother.” Mycroft snapped, “Not that would seem the case at this minute. Thank you for your services.” Mycroft dismissed the medics and they scurried off. Silence falling over the cramped ambulance interior for a moment.

All the words she could say to him were forming stinging lumps in the back her throat, pulsating in the small slither of air between them as she felt Sherlock’s hand brush against hers into her lap. But the touch of his skin sent words stumbling to her lips,

“It would seem,” she breathed, her words slurring, “that no one around here can let me die, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock laughed. So genuinely and uncontrollably it nearly made her jump. His face inches from hers, “No,” he chuckled, tracing his grazed fingers over her hands in her lap, “tried that once. Can’t say I found it particularly enjoyable.”

The room started spinning as Irene returned his laugh and she squeezed her eyes shut against the vertigo, “Me neither, actually.” She managed to reply. Tears stung at the cuts on her cheeks. But wiping them away would mean separating their hands when it seemed the only thing holding her to the conscious world was the touch of his fingertips.

“Are you alright?” he whispered, his voice sounding constricted. The question seemed to rebound around her skull before she untangled some words to answer him,

“I’ll live, Mr Holmes.” She breathed. Opening her eyes, she managed to hold his gaze. There was moisture dripping from the end of his bandaged nose, “Are you alright?” she asked. Sherlock laughed again, lifting her bruised hand from her lap to brush it against his lips that were warm against her dry skin,

“I’ll be fine, Miss Adler.” He whispered into her hand,

“I’ll be fine too, you know.”

Irene watched Sherlock’s eyes roll as Mycroft’s irritated voice broke through the moment between them, “In case either of you were at all concerned.” He finished with a huff.

She giggled as Sherlock returned her hand to her lap, making it a physical battle to keep her eyes open.

“Sleep, Miss Adler.” He said, his face was already dissolving away into inky blackness. The last words she managed to hear, “Rest. You’re safe.” disintegrating in her ears. He seemed to be reassuring himself of that, as much as he was her. But without another word, fear, thought or dream, Irene Adler let her exhaustion carry her from consciousness.

***

Sherlock bundled Irene up carefully into his arms. Making sure his coat remained on her shoulders as he did without waking her or damaging her fresh stitches. It was a surprisingly delicate operation. Particularly when he didn’t want to further aggravate her injury. But eventually, he straighten up cradling a very deeply asleep Irene Adler against his chest.

“You’ll deal with the storm of inconvenient bureaucracy won’t you, brother mine?” Sherlock kept his voice low.

“How gracious of you to ask like you’re giving me a choice, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed. But his eyes darted to Irene in Sherlock’s arms and an odd look of satisfied bemusement claimed his features. Sherlock was about to turn and leave the ambulance when, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked over at his brother, “Do convey my apologies to Miss Adler. For,” Mycroft paused, frowning at himself, “inconveniencing the both of you earlier.”

“ _Inconveniencing?_ ” Sherlock’s voice dripped with repulsion as he scowled at his older brother, “You mean when you acted under Sebastian Moran’s order to arrest her? Forcing him to break into my home and very nearly kill her?” Mycroft cleared his throat. Giving him a solemn nod at which Sherlock only rolled his eyes and stepped out of the ambulance,

“Sherlock-” Mycroft hissed so Sherlock stopped though he didn’t turn his head, “Sherlock, she claims Jim Moriarty was here.”

“I know. She called me.” Sherlock took another step-

“There was a bomb strapped to her, Sherlock, with 3 minutes before it detonated.” Freezing to the spot, Sherlock swallowed hard as Mycroft continued, “She set off the fire alarm, got everyone including myself out and called you.”

At this, Sherlock turned his whole body around to face Mycroft. Miss Adler’s head was resting between his shoulder and his chest. He could hear her breathing. Even feel the movement of her back rising and falling against his forearm as he held her in his arms, glowering at his brother,

“Glad the nature of Miss Adler’s loyalty to Jim Moriarty has been clarified for you.” Sherlock snarled before he turned around and headed away from the ambulance, but not before he called over his shoulder, “Get well soon, brother mine!”

***

On the pavement across the road from St Bart’s, Mary watched on as John reunited the boy with the broken leg with his mother. They shook his hand and thanked him vigorously, before he turned and walked back. Ella was still shrieking in her arms when he re-joined them on the sidewalk,

“You both, okay?” John reached out to clutch at Mary’s cheeks before moving them to Ella’s,

“We’re okay. You?” she asked.

John nodded before slapping a hand to his head, “Oh, god- I better ring Sherlock-!” he exclaimed, “He’s on his way back to the hospital. He should know-” But at that moment Mary’s mouth fell open and she felt the first grin she’d experienced in days crease her cheeks. She grabbed John’s arm that was raising his phone to his ear,

“I don’t think you have to worry about Sherlock, John.”

“What-? Mary-? Oh my _god-”_

Sherlock was walking towards them away from the cluster of ambulances parked across the road. With the unmistakable sleeping form of Irene Adler in his arms.

“Sherlock-?” John spluttered, smiling despite himself as Sherlock reached them, “H-? How-? _Is she okay?_ ” Mary watched John’s eyes scan her body the way he did with patients.

“She’s fine. They’ve given her a lot of morphine for her knife wound.”

Mary couldn’t stop grinning. Her heart was bursting in her eardrums, “Sherlock, how is this even possible?” She sounded almost breathless, but at her words Sherlock went still. A frown shadowing his features as he glanced around,

“We need to get her out of here.” He said.

“Yeah, of course,” Mary nodded, “Car’s up this way.” They all started walking away from the scene and turned up a side street. John falling into step between the pair of them as Sherlock lingered just behind herself and John with Irene.

“Seriously, Sherlock? Did you know? I mean, she was- she was definitely- ” John broke off as they reached the car, “How can she be here?”

Mary passed Ella to John so she could open the car door and help Sherlock get Irene into the back seat. It took some careful maneuvering owing to the car’s tiny nature but, after a moment, Sherlock carefully lowered Irene into the back of the car and closed the door behind her,

“How is she here though, Sherlock? Do you know?” Mary echoed John’s question.

Without taking his eyes off Irene, Sherlock shook his head and swallowed, “It would seem,” He said, an unmistakable edge of disgust to his voice, “that I owe Jim Moriarty a thank you.”

“Jim Moriarty pulled her out of the wreckage?” gasped John.

“Among other things.” Sherlock muttered.

“He was here though?”  Persisted Mary, “What did he want with her? Sherlock-?” 

Sherlock dragged his hands down his face, rubbing his eyes so forcefully it was as if he had a small hope the act would gouge his brain from his skull, “I don’t know” he muttered.

From the corner of her eye, Mary saw John snap to attention at Sherlock’s shaky response. Mary shot John a sideways glance as she listened to Sherlock’s breathing. Sharp twisted breaths he seemed unable to control.

“Sherlock-?” Mary said gently, “Sherlock, breathe.”

“I can’t stop him.” Sherlock choked, “I can’t stop him. I can’t even find him-” Sherlock was clutching at his curls, rocking wildly on the balls of his feet as he continued gesticulating madly, “What happens when you can’t find a spider, John?” Sherlock seemed barely able to control his speech, “It crawls into your ear- makes a home in your head- that’s what he wants. That’s what he’s DOING-!”

John took a step towards him, “Sherlock- look at me.” He said in a level voice.

Sherlock ran a hand down his mouth making his next words barely decipherable, “She was gone. She was nearly gone again and so was Mycroft- I wasn’t even there. He knew I wasn’t there and I can’t even find him-” His voice was a strangled whisper, “That’s what he wants. All of you gone and then he doesn’t have to share anymore. He gets me all to himself.” A horrendously manic sound akin to laughter escaped him.

“Sherlock, please-” Mary started, but Sherlock cut across her,

“The two of you- Molly. Ella. Miss Adler-” His face contorted with each of their names like they were bullets being fired in his chest, “Lestrade- None of you are safe- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t find him- I can’t-” His voice became an unintelligible whisper once again and Mary was about to take a step toward him when John beat her to the punch,

“Sherlock, look at me!” For a moment it was like Sherlock couldn’t hear him over his own ragged breathing, “ _Look at me!_ ” John was still holding a now sobbing Ella as Sherlock seemed to force himself to look down at his best friend, “You are not doing this right now, understand me? Know why? Because we’re here. We’re all right here. Jim Moriarty is a battle we’re all going to have to face sooner or later. But right now we’re all here.”

Mary chimed in, “Sherlock, there is someone asleep in the back of that car right now I know you’d give your life to protect and we all know she needs to get out of here before the wrong people notice she’s alive.” said Mary.

“So you’re going to get into the car,” John continued, “and when we get home, you’re going to tuck Irene Adler into bed, let me restitch your leg gashes because you’re bleeding through your trousers and then you’re going to sleep. None of us have slept properly in 3 days. God knows how long it’s been since you actually have. Clear?”

“Oh,” Mary added, “And if you don’t do it willingly, I have some of Mrs Hudsons’ special tea.”

Sherlock said nothing in response. But moved to walk around John and slide silently into the back of their car beside Miss Adler. John and Mary exchanging wary glances as they both moved to get in too.

 There was no room in their rather small car for the baby seat with all of them in it so John agreed to cradle Ella in the front seat as they drove. Despite the commotion and emotional turmoil that had just occurred, she had already resumed dozing peacefully.

It took a good half an hour to navigate the swirling chaos of police, ambulance and evacuated patients, before Mary finally got the car on a clear route back to 221b. The journey was a silent one punctuated only by infrequent sleepy mumblings from Ella and Irene. But, when they were only a few blocks from 221b, Mary snatched a glance in the rear view mirror to check on Sherlock and had to bite her lip to stifle a giggle. From the corner of her eye, John frowned at her and mouthed ‘ _what?_ ’ Mary shook her head in the direction of the back seat.

Sherlock was leaning with head against the window.  His eyes closed, though Mary doubted he was actually asleep. But at some point in the crawling turns of London’s clogged traffic, Irene Adler had adjusted herself so her head was resting quite snuggly on Sherlock’s shoulder. Her hair shrouding her face as her head leaned against his arm. John and Mary caught each other’s eye. John’s eyebrows were raised almost as high as hers and both of them had pressed their lips pressed together.

Such a simple act of intimacy you’d assume of anyone else but them. Perhaps Irene’s talent for embarrassing Sherlock was one she could exercise even from beyond consciousness. But something told Mary that particular ability was not being utilised at this moment. On the contrary, judging from her breathing and motionless form, it was unlikely she was even awake. Smiling to herself, she pondered whether Sherlock found it comforting that someone trusted him in such an unconscious and instinctive manner. But he’d probably write it off as a simple movement of unconscious anatomy.

“Shut up, Mary.” Sherlock’s surprisingly groggy growl interrupted her thoughts, “I can hear you thinking from back here. It’s painful.”

“Uh huh. Sure, Sherlock.” Mary rolled her eyes just as she pulled into their usual park outside Speedy’s. Her questions regarding the degree of Miss Adler’s consciousness quickly answered when she stirred only long enough to flop her hands through the arms of Sherlock’s jacket, before almost tumbling from the car. Sherlock moved swiftly, though. Scooping her into his arms again as John went on ahead of them with Ella to unlock 221b’s door.

By the time Mary reached him, Sherlock had already taken Irene upstairs and both John and Ella were yawning in 221b’s open doorway,

“Do you think it was really him, love? Jim?” Mary asked him cautiously, looking upstairs towards Sherlock’s apartment,

“I don’t know.” shrugged John with a sigh, “I really don’t know.”

“Either way,” Mary said, “We’ll find out when she wakes up.”

“Yeah,” John agreed wearily, “If she decides to tell him the truth this time.”

Mary laid her head on John’s shoulder that wasn’t currently occupied by Ella,

“Oh, darling,” she yawned as John briefly leaned his head down to rest on hers, “I don’t think we need to worry too much about what she’s going to say,” and in unison they both finished,

“I’m more worried about him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change.” 
> 
> Hey guys, thanks for reading! I realized I haven't said that enough but we have 2 chapters to go so things are getting exciting and emotional for me cos I've never really finished something so big before :) Anyway, something I tried to do over this fic was push Sherlock to his psychological limits as much as Irene to her physical ones (which did involve doing both for both). Sherlock's been through a lot here. Before Irene even showed up at the beginning of this fic, I heavily implied he was edge about Moriarty, because I think he will be when we see the post hlv period. Then (as you all know) I threw a lot at both him and Irene. I even worked quite hard to make their physical injuries equal. This has all been for a purpose (many purposes actually) and it can be explained quite simply by the quote from Tony Robinson above and I hope ya'll will keep that quote in the back of your brain spaces when you read (at least read the rest of) this fic. Soon I'll be able to explain why I've done everything I've done in this fic and I'm so excited I hope you guys are too :)  
> All my love, Merry xox  
> (snogboxez. tumblr.com)


	12. Bravery's Many Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After everything that’s happened, what will Irene Adler have to say to Sherlock Holmes when she wakes up?

In Sherlock’s dream, he was playing his violin. The long cool notes he drew from it vibrating through his fingertips as he pressed at the strings. The tune. The one he wrote about her – reverberated around the landscape of his subconscious. Teeming beneath his skin, scratching at his chest, threatening to burst from his body – to tear him apart- unless he lured it out, peacefully, with yet another stroke of his bow.

It was not _for_ her, however. As long as he’d been capable of memory, Sherlock had never quite been able to completely tune out the incessant humming, droning and screaming melodies his mind produced. The never ceasing tempest of noise his senses bombarded his thoughts with left no shortage of racket in his skull. What good was a mind palace if it was burning in the inferno of his darker, uncalled for, deductions?

But with every stroke of his violin’s bow, the roar of his mind became a melody he could control. Even the most disruptive and destructive thoughts baring down upon his sanity became the light pressure of his fingers against the strings, the flick of his wrist as he guided the bow across them in recreation of the composition that only existed because of her.

The melody changed.

Suddenly, notes felt longer as he released them through his fingers. But some felt briefer too. As if there were now sighs where gasps had been and conversations now replaced single worded silences. It was different, yes. But his fingers travelled no less intimately over the strings. This melody that did not exist without her. Each note he played, the hum of her memory that never dared venture far from his mind.

Never performed for anyone. Not even her. Not even in a dream.

So why could he sense he wasn’t alone?

221b melted into his line of vision like a dull reflection. His violin still resting beneath his chin. Jaw clenching, heart hammering, he pushed the bow up the strings. But silence had begun to consume the music that had been filling the air. Swallowing his composition about Irene Adler until the only sound remaining was a deplorable clapping and the drawling whisper of an unmistakably familiar Irish sneer in Sherlock’s ear that said,

_“Can’t wait to hear the finish.”_

Gasping, Sherlock sat bolt upright. Afternoon light poured in from Baker Street’s windows. The beige blanket that had been placed over him while he slept slid off him onto the floor as his vision came into focus,

“Sherlock?” A groggy voice came from somewhere to his left. Blinking wildly, Sherlock turned his head to find a sleepy eyed Mary, straightening herself up in his chair, “What’s wrong?” she frowned, leaning forward.

With his own sharp breaths piercing his ears, Sherlock swung his legs off the end of the sofa and flung himself to his feet. The dull ache shooting up his thighs and through his entire torso serving as an inconvenient reminder he was injured as he half staggered up the hallway towards his bedroom. But before he could even reach it, John emerged from it. Scratching the back his head and yawning. His eyes widened when he spotted Sherlock,

“Sherlo-?” John started. But Sherlock pushed him aside. Reaching for the handle of his bedroom door, wrapping his fingers around it, pushing it open and peering inside.

The breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding dissipated in the air before him as he lay his eyes on Irene Adler.

Propped slightly upright by three of his pillows, her slumbering exhales disturbed the strands of hair in her face as she slept. Barely audible over the hum of Baker Street’s traffic, but the sound of her breathing seemed to fill Sherlock’s ears as his eyes travelled over her sleeping form.

Her pale forehead was smudged with the greys and purples of bruising. The dark colouration of it contrasted only by the dull scarlet brown cuts and scratches sprawled across her cheeks. His eyes darted over the rest of her and he spotted the needle and intravenous line protruding from her cushioned wrist. Transfusing blood from the bag hanging from the metal stand by the bedside. Sherlock was already frowning before John reached past him and closed Sherlock’s door. Ushering them both soundlessly from the room back into 221b’s narrow hallway,

“She lost a lot of a blood.” John whispered, looking up at him, “Got a bit worried how much and since you got Molly to get her blood type-” John trailed off. His brow furrowing as his eyes swept over Sherlock, “She’s okay, Sherlock. Just asleep.”

Sherlock turned his head away back towards his bedroom door, running a hand through his greasy hair as John continued, “Mary and I have been keeping an eye on her, but she’s just been asleep. Both of you were dead to the world for a while there actually.”

Sherlock tuned his head back to glare at his best friend. Blinking, John suddenly looked abashed. But Sherlock could hear the bitten back laughter in his apology when he whispered, “Sorry- Poor choice of words.”

Without a word, Sherlock pushed passed him back into the living room. Grabbing his shoes by the sofa and picking his coat up off the back of it as he headed towards the door,

“Sherlock-? Where are you-?” Mary started. But Sherlock cut her off,

“I’ll be back. Don’t let her out of your sight, please.”

“Sherlock-!” John hissed, but Sherlock had already slammed the door in his face.

***

John Watson stared open mouthed after his best friend. But, after a moment, he shook his head and sighed. Glancing over at Mary, she shrugged, walked over to him and slipped her arm through his,

“He won’t go far, love.” She whispered, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment before lifting her head. John saw her glance back in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom, “How’s she doing? Heart rate stabilised, yet?” she turned back to John. John reached up a hand to rub his eyes.

“Yeah, better,” He answered, keeping his voice low, “Blood pressure is still not as high as I’d like, but the transfusion is helping a bit. I don’t think any of the blood she lost when she received the original injury was replaced when she was put in that hospital. Explains the fatigue. That plus the morphine,” he paused, “No idea when she’ll wake up,” John failed to stifle a yawn, “But she seems to be alright, considering.” He finished.

“Speaking of fatigue.” Mary looked pointedly up at him, “Why don’t you take a break, love? I’ll check on her for a while. You haven’t rested.” She gave his hand a squeeze. But John shook his head and leaned down to kiss her cheek. Disentangling their arms as he did,

“I’m going to check on Ella and Mrs H. Make sure she isn’t feeding her ‘treats’, again. You good?” He asked. Mary rolled her eyes, smiling fondly up at him,

“I’m fine, darling.” She replied before John nodded and headed downstairs.

***

“Please, Molly?” Greg was pleading with her now.

“No, Greg.” Molly shook her head at him as they walked side by side in the bustling foyer of Scotland Yard.

“I just need you to take it to him. You said you were going over there anyway.” He stepped back from her as she headed towards the doors. Molly hoping he couldn’t hear the bag of blood she’d smuggled from work sloshing in her bag,

“I just dropped by to see if you were alright. Besides, why can’t you take it?” Molly sighed, stopping as he stepped in front of her, blocking her path to the door,

“Because I dragged him up here so Interpol could have a go at him. Plus, I won’t leave those assholes alone with any of our case files- Not to mention I have to deal with bomb squad after they neutralised a device at Bart’s-”

Molly bit her lip before speaking, “You think I can get him to sign it?” she said after a minute, “I was with him during that interview too, Greg. He’s been through enough.” Molly finished with a slight mumble,

“Yeah, but he won’t punch you when he’s pissed off,” Greg replied, “Please, these assholes won’t leave unless he does. I need it today.”

She stared at him for a moment. The wrinkles under his eyes were deepened by shadows, while his short silver hair was somehow managing to be unruly. Half of it was completely flattened. Undoubtedly the result of running his hands over it in frustration for the last 24 hours. With a sigh, Molly held out her hand,

“Alright, then.”

Greg beamed at her and for a second he didn’t look so exhausted, “You’re a lifesaver, Molly.” He handed her the red envelope. Molly pressed her lips together, trying not to chuckle at his selection of words,

“Do my best, I suppose.” She said.

“Seriously, I owe you one.” Greg stepped aside to let her pass and began heading back to the lifts and his office,

“You can buy the coffees this week, then.” She called as he passed her,

“Deal.” He turned back to shoot her a hurried smile, before disappearing into the lift that had just arrived.

***

Mary Watson had pulled up a chair beside Sherlock’s bed and was carefully removing Irene Adler’s IV tube when she began to stir. The tip of the needle coming free just as Irene’s eyes began to move behind their closed lids. Quickly, Mary grabbed a Band-Aid off Sherlock’s night stand and placed it over the tiny puncture wound on Irene’s wrist,

“Miss Adler?” Mary whispered just as Irene’s eyes fluttered open and she let out a groan,

“Hello, Mrs Watson.” Irene muttered sleepily. Her eyes closing again as she spoke, “How are you?” she croaked. Mary couldn’t help but laugh,

“You know, same old, same old.” Mary replied, “You?”

“Spectacular” mumbled Irene with sleepy sarcasm,

“Alive though,” Mary smiled at her,

“Same old same old,” Irene half groaned half mumbled as she opened her eyes back up again and adjusted herself a little more upright against the pillows with a small grunt. Suddenly, she squeezed her eyes shut. What little colour she had regained in her cheeks vanishing-

“Oh- here,” Mary quickly grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand, “Drink up. You haven’t eaten or drank anything for 2 days.”

“You don’t say.” Irene muttered. Opening her eyes a fraction to glare at the glass in Mary’s outstretched hand, before snapping them shut. Raising a shaking hand, however, Irene took the cup. Bringing it to her cracked lips, she took a few sips of the water. Her breaths passing sharply through her nose.

But after a few minutes the green tinge faded from her cheeks. Irene drained the rest of the glass and opened her eyes back up. Blinking and looking down at herself, Mary saw the bruise on her forehead crease as her brow furrowed into a frown. They had found a grey pyjama shirt of Sherlock’s to cover her when they had put her to bed yesterday. Irene was now looking down at it, eye brows raised and the corner of her mouth twitching upward,

“What’s so funny?” asked Mary, taking the glass from her and placing it back on the nightstand. Blinking, Irene turned to look at her as if she had forgotten Mary was there,

“Some things don’t really change do they?” she smirked, after a moment. Her bruised fingers tugging absently at Sherlock’s shirt as she spoke.

“Most things look like they don’t,” Mary sighed, trying not to yawn, “But then you look back and they have. Even if they seem the same. Things can’t happen the same way twice. Time makes that impossible. People change. Places change.” Mary watched Irene’s face, but she seemed lost in thought,

“I suppose that’s a relief.” Irene said finally, her eyes still wandering around Sherlock’s bedroom,

“It can be,” Mary agreed, watching her as she leaned forward off the pillows,

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, her voice a little tight with the effort of moving,

“A day or so,” Mary replied, “Not uncommon with trauma and it’s pretty fair to say you’ve had your share.” 

“Fair is not exactly the word I’d associate with it.” Irene muttered, flexing her hands and grimacing, “Is Moran dead?” she asked, suddenly looking at Mary. Pressing her lips together, Mary tried not to smile at her,

“Yes. I shot him in the head.”

Irene’s eyes widened for a moment before her face softened and a smug little smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth,

“Well, in that case,” said Irene, inhaling a deep breath, “You have my gratitude, Mrs Watson.”

Mary waved away the thanks, catching a glimpse of Irene’s blood stained surgical pants as she restlessly adjusted herself in the bed,

“Not really necessary, Miss Adler.” Mary gave her a smile which she actually returned. But as Irene’s eyes began to roam around Sherlock’s room again, Mary couldn’t help herself,

“Sherlock said that Jim Moriarty pulled you out of Moran’s property. That he tried to blow you up.”

“Yes,” Irene answered, Mary saw her whole body stiffen as she turned her head to look at her.

“He wanted you to help him hurt Sherlock, didn’t he?” Mary asked. Irene licked her lips, looking down at her blood soaked pants,

“Jim Moriarty always designs his games to hurt, Mrs Watson.” Irene replied, a bitterness to her voice that boarded on barely suppressed rage. As if those words were not hers, but belonged entirely to the pain of her injuries. But it was the complete and utter look of pity that flashed across Irene’s eyes before she looked away from Mary that nearly made Mary shiver, despite the afternoon sun saturating Sherlock’s room. Looking behind her out the door, Mary found herself listening for John’s uneven footfall, but he had not yet returned from checking on Ella,

 “Now, they stitched you up in the ambulance.” Something about the way Irene was glaring at the far wall told Mary, Irene didn’t want to discuss Moriarty with her, “John and I put protective plaster over them, but be careful.” Mary continued, “It’s a pretty deep wound. It’s going to be tender for a while. The knife didn’t break any ribs, but you’re still badly bruised. Sherlock’s aren’t much better. The both of you are in a pretty bad way.” Mary finished, her voice slightly acidic as Irene turned her hand over and saw the band aid on her wrist, 

“Miss Adler!” Both of them glanced around to see John standing in the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom, “Thank God, you’re awake-” He exhaled loudly, joining Mary at the bedside. Mary feeling her heart skip a beat as his shoulder brushed hers,

“From the looks of things, you’d more aptly credit my conscious state to yourselves and Miss Hooper, Dr Watson.” Irene’s eyes flew towards the bag of blood hanging beside them before returning her attention to them both. John laughed, the first time Mary heard him do so in days, making her grin,

“How you feeling?” John asked, “Your blood pressure is still a little low so you might feel a little light headed.”

“Hungry, actually.” Irene mused, looking up at John.

“Know the feeling.” said Mary frowning, watching Irene wince as she leaned forward to pull Sherlock’s bedsheets aside,

“Take it easy.” Mary cautioned as she and John took half a step back to give her enough room.

One at a time, Irene gingerly placed her feet to the floor. Twisting her body around and taking a deep breath as she sat. Gripping the edge of Sherlock’s bed on each side of her to steady herself.

After a minute or so, she got to her feet.

For a moment, she stood perfectly steady, but the colour began to evaporate from her cheeks almost immediately. John rushed to grab her. Carefully supporting her right side and not the left,

“Whoah, easy- you alright?” he asked. Irene’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut,

“Sure you don’t want to lay down for a few more minutes?” Mary asked her, her hands resting just above Irene’s shoulders,

“God, no.” Irene breathed, opening her eyes,

“It’s not going to be good for anyone if Sherlock comes home and finds you collapsed,” Mary said, “Given the circumstances, he’d probably shoot me.,” she added, shrugging. John shot her an exasperated look,

“So he isn’t here,” Irene chirped shakily, ultimately failing to sound disinterested in the news, “I was wondering why the two of you were the only ones hovering over me.”

Mary and John exchanged weary glances. Now supporting Irene on either side of her just outside the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Miss Adler, you need to-” John started,

“I need to get rid of the taste of dried blood in my mouth, Dr Watson. Along with the considerable amount that has been covering my body for two days.” She snapped, “I’m going to have a bath.”

“You can’t stand up!” cried John. But Irene raised a sceptical eyebrow at him,

“Traditionally, one doesn’t need to when taking a bath, Dr Watson.”

“She has a point, John.” Mary said. John sighed, looking between Mary and Irene.  “Oh, that reminds me!” Mary gasped. Quickly letting go of Miss Adler’s arm, Mary ensured she was steady, before she took herself off into the living room. The bag was where she left it beside Sherlock’s chair. Grabbing it, she returned to the hallway.

Miss Adler was holding the bathroom doorknob. John, no longer supporting her, was standing opposite. His body tensed and his face grim,

“I am sorry, Miss Adler- for what happened with Moran-” he was saying. To Mary’s surprise, Irene turned in the doorway of the bathroom and gave him a weak smile,

“Please, Dr Watson” she replied, cutting him off, “I would rather not allow Sebastian Moran any kind of redemption by accepting, partially or otherwise, that you were responsible for his actions.”

John blinked at her. Mary smiled up at him, reaching his side before returning her attention to Miss Adler, “These are for you.” She handed the paper shopping bag to Irene, “Figured you’d want something not covered in blood and not Sherlock’s to change into.”

“Oh,” Blinked Irene, taking the bag. The smallest of grins flickered across her grazed and bruised features, “Thank you, Mrs Watson.”

“No worries. Come on, John. Leave the woman to bath in peace.” Mary tugged at his arm,

“Watch your stitching.” Said John, “Shout if you need something.” He added, a little too automatically, Mary saw his cheeks turn pink, “I mean-er-” he spluttered,

“You’re free to join me, Dr Watson.” Irene said suggestively, but her voice was soaked in playful sarcasm,

“I’m a married man.” John said evenly with a grin,

“She can come too.” Irene shrugged, closing the bathroom door with a wink. John turned to look at Mary,

“I wouldn’t-” he started. But Mary rolled her eyes at him and pecked him on the cheek, unable not to laugh at the pinkish hue in his cheeks,

“I know.”

“Did she say anything about Jim?”

“Not really,” Mary shook her head at him, “But what she didn’t say wasn’t particularly encouraging.” John looked puzzled at the answer. But slipped his hand into hers as they headed back into the living room. Listening to the sound of the bath water running,

“Do you feel sorry for her?” Mary whispered, unable to help herself,

“I feel sorry for both of them.” John sighed, his eyes a thousand years away, “All of this- But they can never really be-” he broke off, shaking his head,

“What do you think he’s going to do?” Mary lowered her voice as the water stopped running. John shrugged at her, scratching his eyelid,

“Hard to tell these days. Depends on what she says,” John puffed the air from his cheeks, “Or worst case, it won’t.” he let out a sigh that was closer to a groan.

“Ella?” she asked, after a pause.

“She’s fine. I’ll bring her up here now that everyone’s awake.” He paused, “Hang on, where did you get the money to buy her clothes?” he asked. She grinned at him, giving his shoulder a playful nudge,

“Forgot our little wager, did you?” she laughed, “You owe me 50 quid, remember?”

***

 

Molly Hooper climbed the steps to 221b with Sherlock’s unsigned witness statement under her arm and her purse containing the bag of B Positive blood firmly in hand. Sherlock had been asleep when she’d dropped the blood for Irene over yesterday. Molly was sure that the last thing he would want would be to be woken up to sign a piece of paper.

But, when Molly walked into 221b, she only saw Mary sitting in Sherlock’s chair and the noted absence of Sherlock’s sleeping form on the sofa.

“Molly?” Mary, looked up, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Molly’s eyes swept over the apartment. She’d never seen the place in such a state. Half of one of Baker Street’s tall windows was boarded up. Tattered tendrils and strings of Sherlock’s web lay strewn all over the place. Torn up papers and the occasional shard of glass crunched beneath her shoes as she walked over to Mary, “Yeah-” Molly blinked. Pulling her focus back to Mary, “Everything’s fine. I thought I’d drop this by in case Miss Adler needed it.” She pulled the bag of blood carefully from her bag, “Oh, and Greg just gave me this,” she held up the yellow envelope, “He needs Sherlock to sign it ASAP.”

“He’s not here.”

Molly turned around. John was walking through the door behind her. Sporting a snoozing baby Ella on his shoulder, “He left over an hour ago.” John finished.

“Where did he go?” Frowned Molly,

“No idea.” Mary said, shrugging.

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

Mary shook her head. Sighing, Molly rocked back on her heels, still glancing around and twisting her fingers restlessly around the envelope,

“She’s in the bath, Molly.” Mary said, “Sorry, we should have called, but she only just got up.”

“What-? She’s awake, then?”

“Yep.” Nodded John

“How is she?”

“She’ll be okay.” Mary said, “She doesn’t need another transfusion, at least.”

“Does Sherlock know?” Molly asked as she stowed the blood carefully away again,

“I’ve been trying to call. Every time I do it’s busy.” John’s brow creased into a tired frown as he settled in his old chair with Ella, sighing.

“Tea, anyone?” Suddenly, Mrs Hudson entered the apartment carrying a tea tray that rattled under the load of half a dozen teacups and saucers. Steam lightly billowed from two floral teapots over two plates of biscuits as she waddled over to them with a clatter,

“Mrs Hudson,” John made a tutting noise, “I told you not to-”

“And I told you I’m Sherlock’s land lady. Not yours anymore, dear.” She placed the tea tray down on the coffee table between them all and perched herself on the sofa. Molly glanced at the door.

“I should be getting back-” she began, biting her lip. But Mary shook her head,

“We text him she’s awake, Molly.” She said, “And if you need him to sign that document, you might as well stick around.” 

Shrugging, Molly sat down on the sofa. Placing the envelope down on the table beside the tea tray, she offered to pour a tea for Mary. Smiling, Mary nodded at her.

“We can’t all sit around and have tea while Irene Adler’s taking a bath.” John hissed as leaned forward to grab a biscuit,

“She’ll be out a minute. I think I heard the water being let out.” mused Mary, sipping her tea,

“Mary-”

“I’m bloody starving, John.” She bit into a Monte Carlo, “And Sherlock told us not to leave her alone.”

“Sherlock will lose it when he gets here.” John took a bite of a biscuit that Mrs Hudson had passed to him, spraying crumbs with his next words, “He’ll be pissed.”

“And none of us know how to handle that, dear.” Mrs Hudson giggled, taking a tea from Molly.

***

Sherlock stood on the landing one flight above his apartment. The nails of his fingers digging into his palms as he listened to the chatter floating down towards him from 221b’s open door.

It was such a simple instruction. The subtext had been even simpler.

“But no.” he muttered under his breath, “Of course. The logical thing to do when Irene Adler has almost been blown to bits by the most dangerous man in the Northern Hemisphere is throw a tea party. Wonderful.”

He flinched as his phone vibrated in his hand, before wordlessly bringing it to his ear,

“What?”

“But, sir,” stammered his contact, “If what you’re saying- we should call the government.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes,

“That’s not what he wants me to do. Just keep an eye out.” Pocketing the phone, Sherlock began bringing his foot down hard on the steps. Stomping up the next flight as loudly as possible until he reached his front door.

They all looked at him as if he was a bomb about to detonate. But it was John who piped up first. Ever the brave soldier. Getting up off his chair and walking towards him,

“Sherl-?”

“Where is she?”

“She’s fine, Sherlock. She’s in the bathroom.” Mary said. Putting down her tea and moving to stand at John’s side.

Frowning at them both, Sherlock’s eyes moved over to rest on Molly,

“What are you doing here?” He barked.

Dropping her tea cup in her saucer with a loud clang, Molly scrambled to grab at the large yellow envelope on the table. Nearly tripping over her feet as she got up to hand it to him,

“You never did actually sign your witness statement.” She squeaked. Rolling his eyes, he turned away from her to glare at Mrs Hudson,

“As for you, stop bringing me tea.”

“I’m your landlady. Not your housekeeper. I can bring you tea if I like. Especially if you have guests and all you’ve got in your fridge is toes.” Huffed Mrs Hudson. Moving to stand with John and Mary. Sherlock scowled at her,

“My guest-” he started,

“Is very grateful for the tea, Mrs Hudson.” Chimed Irene Adler’s voice.

All of them whipped around. Irene Adler was settled on Sherlock’s sofa with one leg crossed over the other. Pulling a tea cup away from her lips to stir its contents with a biscuit, before nibbling at the end of it.

Sherlock watched as she licked the crumbs from her lips to take another sip. Feeling his heart crash into his bones as his eyes swept over her. She was wearing jeans and a dark shirt beneath a leather jacket. His fingers balled into fists as if it could stop the inevitable tingling sensation that spread from them. His breath echoing sharply in his ear drums as he could feel everyone’s gaze slowly move between Irene and him. The moment couldn’t have possibly been more unbearable, but then,

“Lovely to finally meet you, dear!” Mrs Hudson clasped her hands together as she shuffled over to the sofa,

“And you, Mrs Hudson.” Irene smiled up at her, but not before shooting a brief smirk in Sherlock’s direction,

“Oh, she’s lovely, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson trilled. Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, hoping the floor would swallow them all, “But what happened to you, dear?” she paused, her voice laden with abhorrent concern, “All these cuts and bruises-”

Irene chuckled, “Oh, I had some trouble with some friends recently. Sherlock was assisting me.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open in time to see Mrs Hudson round on him,

“Toes are not how you take care of injured guests, Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs Hudson folded her arms. Sherlock’s breath was almost a growl through his nose, but it was John who managed to speak before he could,

“Mrs Hudson,” John said quickly, “Sherlock-”

“Where have I seen you before though, dear?” Turning back to Irene, Mrs Hudson continued as if John hadn’t spoken, “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“We did unofficially meet once.” Irene suggested. Nibbling at her fourth biscuit,

“No.” Mrs Hudson’s brow was furrowed with the very effort of thinking, “It’s a photo. I’ve seen you in a photo…”

Something twisted in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach as his breath snagged in the back of  his throat. _Had she seen-?_ Blood rushed to his cheeks. Feeling his face begin to burn as he bounded over to Mrs Hudson, standing between her and the Woman,

“You’ve never seen her before. But now you have- Time to go back downstairs to where you actually live now-”

Mrs Hudson gasped, pointing a wild finger around Sherlock at Irene,

“She’s the woman in those _special_ photographs you keep in your drawer with that useless old phone of yours, isn’t she?” she exclaimed. “ _She_ is the woman you wrote all that lovely music about!”

The groan that escaped Sherlock was not loud enough to drown out Irene Adler’s snigger as she half choked on her tea.

 ‘What photos?” Molly stammered. Mary clapped a hand over her mouth in a failed attempt to stifle her giggle. Despite his history, Sherlock had never actually given suicide any kind of serious thought, but throwing himself from a building had never felt more tempting.

“Well, dear they’re-” Grabbing Mrs Hudson’s shoulders, Sherlock wheeled her around, guiding her pointedly towards the door,

“Yes. Goodbye, thank you for the tea!” he slammed the door behind her. Reaching into his inside pocket, he whipped out a pen and snatched the envelope from Molly. Focusing intently on opening it and pulling out the witness statement instead of the furious fire raging beneath in his cheeks,

“Mary and John told me what happened. That night.” From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Molly walk over to Irene, “If it’s true, you’re very brave.” Molly babbled sheepishly,

“I suppose. But bravery wears many masks, Miss Hooper,” Irene replied, pausing for a moment to place her tea down and fiddle with the sleeve of her jacket at the wrist, “Like loyalty.” She finished. There was a long pause between the two women while Sherlock desperately flicked through the bureaucratic nightmare of his witness statement,

“I don’t think you’re as disloyal as you think you are.” mumbled Molly. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Irene blink in surprise,

“Very grand assessment. For someone you don’t know.” Irene pointed out,

“Probably why I can make it.” Molly laughed uncomfortably. But, from what Sherlock could see at the edge of his vision, Irene was smiling at her, “Anyway- Doesn’t matter. Just glad you’re okay.”

“Here, Molly.” Sherlock stuck out his arm with witness statement in hand, “You can go and deliver that to Lestrade now.”

When he looked up, Irene and Molly both rolled their eyes at him. Turning her head away, Irene addressed Molly,

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hooper. Thank you for all your help.”

“The pleasure was mine- I mean, not like that but- oh god- I mean, yeah-” Molly stuttered. Chuckling, Irene stood up to face Molly and it struck Sherlock they were nearly the same height,

“Goodbye Miss Hooper.” She said.

“See you.” Molly walked away from her towards Sherlock and grabbed the witness statement from him,

“You going to be okay?” she asked him tentatively. Sherlock wanted to nod, but the ability to move his head seemed to have vacated his mind. When he didn’t say anything, Molly averted her gaze from him,

“Do you two need me to take care of Ella tomorrow?” Molly stopped at the door, looking at Mary and John,

“We’re alright, Molly.” Said Mary.

“Okay. Bye everyone!” Molly squeaked and she was gone.

Sherlock turned to look at John and Mary. Rolling his eyes, John threw up the free hand that wasn’t supporting Ella against his shoulder,

“We’re going- we’re going- Jesus Christ-!” he muttered. Sherlock chanced a side glance at Irene. Her arms were folded and she was glaring at him quite ferociously. Shaking his head, Sherlock sighed. Turning back to look at his best friend and his wife as they tugged on their coats with their baby daughter,

“Wait,” Sherlock groaned. Mary and John stopped. Both of them watching him carefully. Snatching another look at Irene, she looked smug as he continued “Thank you. Both of you. For everything. I don’t know what I would have -” From the corner of his eye, Irene moved to stand beside him, “Thank you,” he repeated, willing himself to ignore the fact that he could feel her body heat seeping into the air between their shoulders, “Both of you.” He managed,

“It’s alright, Sherlock.” Mary irritatingly beamed at the pair of them,

“You’re both welcome.” yawned John. Looking wearily between them before addressing Irene, “Please look after yourself, Miss Adler.” He sighed, “For all our sakes.”

Irene chuckled. The sound washed over him so his heart contracted in his chest,

“Doctor’s orders?” she asked lightly,

“Doctor’s pleadings.” John laughed,

“Well you’re not the first Doctor to beg me.” Shrugged Irene.

“Take care of yourself, though.” Mary grinned, taking a small step towards Irene. For a wild second Sherlock thought Mary was going to hug her. But he let out a sigh of relief as she simply gave her forearm arm a brief squeeze, “And please no more murderous assassins.” She said.

“Are there any other kind?” Irene raised an eyebrow. Mary smiled at her,

“I’d like to think so.” She said, taking a step back from her,

“Thank you.” Irene said, looking at Mary and John. But not before smirking up at Sherlock as if he was a bug she’d trapped beneath glass. She took a deep breath, “Ella’s very lucky to have such kind and protective parents.”

Sherlock had had enough,

“Yes, Ella’s lucky. You’re grateful. I’m grateful and now they’re leaving. Bye.”

And now Mary and John were both rolling their eyes.

“See you later, Sherlock,” called John as the two of them began heading out the door, “Oh, I think Ella’s things are downstairs.” Sherlock heard John say, before he shut the door behind them. Leaving him alone with Irene Adler for the first time since the night at Moran’s. His heart was already hammering into every nerve of his body before he turned from the door to face her.

***

Irene Adler was trying her best not to breathe too hard. Aside from the obvious and troublesome pain it caused her ribs, it was a rather ridiculous symptom to develop because she was alone with Sherlock Holmes. But his stare was almost like a pull threatening to rip her heart from her chest. She cleared her throat loudly. Hoping the noise would muffle the bang of her heart against her ear drums,

“Nice of you to drop by.” She drawled. Folding her arms as she spoke. Sherlock shook his head, unhitching himself from where he was leaning against the door to move towards her. Irene watched him carefully. Keeping her feet firmly planted on the ground as he reached her. Without a word, he reached into his inside pocket, produced a small plastic evidence pouch and handed it to her.

Glancing down at it, Irene saw its contents was a familiar looking passport, a few other documents and a thick wad of cash. Taking it from him, she tried to ignore the tingling sensation that shot through her fingertips as they brushed his. But she frowned as he retracted his hand almost instantly.

“Mycroft took these from evidence. Moran was keeping them in a safe so they weren’t damaged in the explosion.” He looked away from her, “Saves you having to find a new alias.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” She said. Frowning again as he turned away from her.

“I am leaving.” The words stumbled from her before she could stop them, falling from her lips as if she had thrown them at him. She shifted her weight uneasily, waiting for his response,

“I know.” Sherlock said robotically, still without looking at her. An unsettling sense of Déjà vu clenched at her insides,

“I can’t stay here.” She said as he began to pick up the strings scattered beneath his feet.  Crouching down to gather the fallen articles and photos up in his hands before throwing them down onto the table beside him,

“Not anymore.” He muttered. Irene could hear her breaths. Nearer to sharp screams in her ears,

“It was him, Sherlock.” She breathed, “It was Jim Moriarty. I’m not lying to you.” For a brief moment, Sherlock froze in the act of scrunching up a newspaper clipping, before tossing it across the room into the bin. The sheer amount of mess and destruction in the apartment, Irene wasn’t sure why he was bothering, but she continued, “I woke up in that hospital and he said I’d die if I didn’t agree to his plan.”

At this, Sherlock stopped and fixed her with a stare so cold, Irene almost had to verbally will herself not to step backwards,

“And what did you say?” he shot at her. Irene unfolded her arms to clench her hands into fists beside her. Clutching the evidence bag so that it was the only thing preventing her nails piercing her palms,

“That I’m already dead.” She tried to keep her voice even. Not breaking eye contact with him as he began dragging a hand down his face, “Sherlock-?”

Sherlock chuckled manically, “Already dead,” he muttered, “Look around you, Miss Adler. Do you see my issue?”

“Which one in particular?” she scowled as he turned to face her. Standing in front of the boarded up window Moran had no doubt thrown himself from after he had attacked her.

“Jim Moriarty wants to kill me. I can’t find him. But he can find the people he _thinks_ I care about. I took your case to find Moran in the hopes it would lead me to him.” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes, “But now I’m back to square one. All because you weren’t as clever as I thought you were.”

Irene Adler’s heart plummeted from her chest into the floor beneath her shoes. But she knew it couldn’t have because she could still feel it. Every single beat. Stabbing painfully at every cell in her body until the insane thought that her bones might snap or shatter crossed her mind. It was as if the very piece of reality she existed in had splintered. Sherlock swayed before her. Shifting in and out of focus in a nightmarish red haze that threatened to ensure her body joined her heart on the floor. But with a momentous effort, she sucked in her breath. Glaring at him for a good few moments before she spoke,

“What?” she breathed as he dared to resume his apparently absent minded cleaning, “As if all I am to you is some kind of informant? Well,” her voice was almost a hiss, “I hate to inform you, Mr Holmes,” She growled, “But my existence is not a service to you or Jim Moriarty. My life is not defined by you or him.”

Sherlock flinched. As if her words burnt him.

“You could have agreed to help him. At least then you would know where he was. This entire mess could have been of some use to me.” He kicked at the papers on the floor. Conveniently avoiding her gaze,

“Yes,” her voice was deadly, “Because you’d _love_ it, if I did that.” Irene saw Sherlock’s eye twitch,

“I would _love_ to find Jim Moriarty, yes.” He snarled at her, “And my opinion on your movements has never influenced them before.”

“Oh, believe me they still don’t.” she snapped. Almost shaking with the jolts of her racing heart as it bashed agonisingly against her ribs. But Sherlock changed tact at the speed of light,

“You refused him and it almost got you killed!” He took a few steps towards her, “Since when was your life so invaluable to you?”

“Don’t think because you saved my life once, you have the right to assume its worth.” She retorted, “I refused Jim Moriarty due to a conflict of personal interest.”

“And that personal interest was worth more to you than finding him? Than your own _life_?!” His face was inches from hers now,

“More than the ‘life’ Jim Moriarty would grant me?” Irene held his gaze. Watching the way his eyes flashed for a long moment as they bore down into hers,

“Yes.”  She finished.

The pain in her chest made her want to scream. The four biscuits she’d just scoffed felt like a lump in the back of her throat. Everything was spinning, but at the centre of it all was the two of them. Something flickered behind Sherlock’s eyes. A flash of admiration? Desperation? They matched each other’s glare for a few more long moments. Minutes filled with nothing but the sound of their own ragged breathing in the small space between their faces. Before Sherlock straightened up and turned away from her, “Though I’m beginning to doubt that now.” She muttered as he began shuffling around his papers again.

“Then, go!” his eye twitched as he dared to face her, “Run like you always do. You said you were leaving. Go! You got what you wanted. Moran is dead. Case closed. That was our deal. It’s done. You don’t have to hide here anymore.”

“You think I don’t know how dangerous your world is? I didn’t come back here because I thought it was safe. I didn’t have a choice!”

“Please,” and for a moment his voice had the faintest hint of a plea, “Please, don’t preach to me about choice, Miss Adler.”

Cautiously, she took a step towards him. Her body felt heavy, like each word he spoke had tied anchors to her bones,

“Sherlock,” she swallowed, “You’re scared. You should be, but you don’t want-” Sherlock clutched at his curls. Almost tearing them out as he began gesturing madly at her. Cutting her off so she jumped back from him,

“How would you know what I want?” he spat at her, “Unless you’ve manipulated me into wanting it.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” Irene asked. Her voice deadly calm.

He blinked. Frozen for a moment. As if the question had turned his blood to stone. His entire being was motionless. All but his eyes as they darted upwards to the bruise on her forehead and down at her hands. Bruised, blacked and burled into fists at her side around her documents. Irene glared at him. Daring him to respond. From the corner of her eye, she thought he saw his hand twitch towards her. But, after a moment, she was sure she had imagined it because he took a deep breath and stepped away from her,

“I don’t want this.” His voice was dead as he turned his back on her. Irene hadn’t realized that she had stopped breathing until she had to take a breath to respond,

“I’m leaving, Mr Holmes. I refuse to be collateral damage in a battle where Jim Moriarty has nothing to lose.” She tried to keep her voice calm and swallowed, “Regardless of what you say, I’m not coming back here. Not to Baker Street, to London or to you. Not ever.” It was the truth, but it hung in the air like a threat.

Turning back to her, his hazel eyes locked with hers for a long moment and Irene saw what Mrs Watson had meant by both of them being in pretty bad shape. Sherlock’s face almost mirrored her own in cuts and bruises. But, unlike her, there were stitches below his hairline and a thin bandage across his crooked nose. His hands were bandaged too, but Irene could just see the ends of the lacerations left by Moran’s bonds as he turned away from her. Ensure his back was facing her once more,

“Thank you for the case.”  Sherlock began shuffling papers about the room again. Keeping his back turned to her. Pulling down the drooping strings of his web as he went. Irene watched him with her jaw halfway to the floor, before she snapped it shut. Feeling the involuntary tears stinging behind her eyes as she said, her voice a manic attempt at indifference,

“No. Thank _you_ , Mr Holmes.” Irene cleared her throat, “For your most _elaborate_ consultation. I do hope you’re as,” she rolled the word around her tongue, “ _intimately_ concerned for your other clients.”

“Goodbye, Miss Adler.” He said. Focusing intently on the papers he’d begun gathering up as he crouched down on the floor.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes.”

***

Mary and John were standing in the foyer outside Mrs Hudson’s apartment with their mouths hanging open when Miss Adler pushed past them and, once outside, disappeared into the next cab. Mary watching her leave with wide eyes before she rested them on John,

“I was afraid he’d do something like that.” He breathed, readjusting a snoozing Ella and swearing under his breath. Mary was shaking her head,

“No.” she said, “He’s not going to.”

“Mary-” John began. But she took the stairs two at time back up to 221b.

***

Sherlock was standing in front of one of Baker Street’s windows with his hands clasped behind his back when Mary came bounding in,

“Sherlock, what are you thinking?” she said, a little breathlessly as John reached the doorway close on her heels. Ella mumbling happily at the commotion while John held her,

“I think you were both leaving.” He said. Not turning away from the window.

“Mary, c’mon-” John was pleading as he shushed Ella,

“Sherlock,” Mary took a step toward him, looking away from him and Ella, “I know you think you’re protecting her-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock stated, still staring out the window

“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” John shouted, “You can’t push people away and think that will stop them caring. You of all people know it doesn’t work like that!”

“Me of all people?” Sherlock turned around and fixed John with a broken glare that John was sure he wished was righteous. But he continued unabated as Ella began to cry,

“You were gone for two years, mate.” John’s voice was low, but still audible over Ella’s tiny sobs, “Or have you forgotten?”

Sherlock held John’s gaze with his glare for a long moment, “No.” he replied. John’s sigh quickly became exasperated as he took a few steps towards him so he was now standing next to Mary,

“You didn’t talk to Irene Adler for 3 years until she turned up here and you saw her.” Sherlock stiffen at John’s words, “She was a mess.” He continued, “You were a mess when you didn’t know where she was!”

John heard Sherlock’s breathing catch. For a brief moment it was like he didn’t breathe at all. He watched as, eyes widening, jaw dropping, his features drowned in his apparent disbelief of John’s words,

“YOU THINK THAT’S WHY-?” Sherlock started, his voice teetering at the edge of a strangled scream, “BECAUSE I CAN’T _SEE_ -BECAUSE I DON’T WANT _HER TO-_ ” He stopped himself. Rubbing his eyes so furiously he might have hoped his fingers could scratch away his memories as his words hung in the air. Twisting at the silence. Even Ella’s sobs had halted.

“Oh, Sherlock-” Mary whispered, her voice shaking ever so slightly, “I’m so sorry.” Swallowing, John felt her glance at him. But he couldn’t take his eyes off his best friend. John had always made a joke out of how unbearable Sherlock got when he was upset. How truly and utterly irritating he could be if something didn’t go his way. But there wasn’t anything remotely humorous about the broken man in front of him.

“Sherlock-” John started. His voice as gentle as if he were trying to comfort Ella,

“I can’t protect any of you.” Sherlock said blankly as if he hadn’t heard John, “When it comes to Jim Moriarty it’s the only thing I do know. As long as I -” Sherlock sucked in his breath, “So, I can’t. I just can’t.” he finished.

“Caring for someone, Sherlock,” Mary began, her voice wary but gentle, “It’s not a power they have over you that you’re free of if you can push them away. It’s just something you do. Like breathing. Trying to stop it- You won’t just hurt you.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly.

“What makes you think I care?” The question left his lips as if the words tasted repulsive.

“Because the science of deduction is observing what’s right in front of you, Sherlock.” Answered Mary. Sherlock scowled at her, 

“Sherlock, this isn’t going to work. None of it. You think I haven’t noticed? You’re my best mate. You’re Ella’s Godfather, for Christ’s sake! But we don’t see you for days –weeks!” John strode across the room, closing the cluttered space between them, “You’ve killed people in cold blood to protect the people you care about. I’ve seen it. Wanna try and convince the world you don’t care by sabotaging your soul? Go right ahead, but It’s not going to work. Hell, it isn’t working! Jim Moriarty nearly killed two of the people you care about yesterday!”

Sherlock gave him a withering look,

“Shut up, you care about Mycroft and you know it.” John snapped, “Look, this thing you’re doing, being a bigger asshole than usual to keep us away because you think it’ll protect us. We both know there’s no one you wished you hated more than your brother and the woman who just left this apartment, Sherlock. But he still got to them.” Sherlock glowered at him, John scrambled to finish “They’re also both relatively fine.”

“You can’t protect us, Sherlock. It’s true.” Mary agreed. Taking a squirmy Ella from John, “But you also don’t really have to.” Quickly, Mary shot John a glance. He frowned at her for a moment before his eyes widened. Catching her drift, he nodded his head slightly before he spoke,

“I’ve got Mary. She’s got me. We’ve both got you.” He sighed, “Other than herself, whose Miss Adler got?”

“She’ll be fine.” Muttered Sherlock,

“Of course she will be.” Mary cautioned, “But will you?”

“She’s gone, Mary.” Sherlock said, after a few long moments. His voice strained. His features so pale, they were almost ghostly, “Now, will both of you please go.” He finished with gritted teeth. John shook his head wearily. Clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides before he turned away from Sherlock and sighed, “Come on, love.” He rested a hand on Mary’s shoulder. But Mary didn’t move,

“You’re right, Sherlock. She is gone.” Mary shifted a noisy Ella in her arms, “I heard her get into a cab. Sounded like she asked for Heathrow.” At this, Sherlock said nothing.  John narrowed his eyes at his wife. Her nose was crinkling the way it did when she was trying not to grin,

“Which is rather unfortunate,” Mary continued, winking at John, “because I think she dropped this.”

And with her free hand Mary pulled from the pocket of her coat, Irene Adler’s passport,

“Honestly, I’m not really sure how far she’s going to get.” Shrugged Mary. John gawked at it, feeling his bottom jaw plummet. But however shocked John might’ve been, it was nothing in comparison to Sherlock.

John Watson had known Sherlock Holmes for almost 6 years and had lived with him for 3 of them. In fact, there had been weeks of John Watson’s life when he hadn’t left Sherlock’s vicinity at all. He had been with Sherlock when they’d seen crooks and criminals apprehended, families reunited, seen things long lost that were quickly found, seen the most inexplicable and extraordinary things. But in all those years, in all that time, John Watson had never seen Sherlock look at an object the way he was staring at Irene Adler’s passport.

If there was one thing being an army doctor had taught him, it was that you never fully understand how much hope someone has lost unless you’re lucky enough to see them get it back.

Sherlock hadn’t moved, but his entire being had changed. He was breathing, but it was more than that, _he was breathing._ The tension had fled from his shoulders. Colour ran back into his cheeks. Relief flooded over his statue-like stance so that for a brief moment it was almost like he had melted. The destroyed version of Sherlock Holmes they had gotten so used to dissolved, just for a moment.

“Sherlock-?” John started. But Sherlock leapt forward. Snatching up the passport, he swooped down and planted a kiss on Ella and Mary’s foreheads. Mary was beaming at him. Even John felt his face crack into a smile,

“Thank you,” he breathed. Seemly to both of them and no one in particular,

“Don’t think it’s us you need to thank.” John laughed,

“Go get her,” But the words had barely left Mary’s lips before Sherlock sprinted from the room.

Watching after his best friend, John was still chuckling when he turned to Mary. Smiling smugly and standing proudly with Ella chatting incoherently in her arms. John walked towards her until the only thing between them was their now oddly quiet baby daughter,

“Probably would have been better to open with that, Mrs Watson.” John rocked back on his heels, unable not to grin as he absently stroked Ella’s back,

“No.” Mary shook her head, smiling up at him, “He needed to hear all that. You needed to talk to him.” John gave her a nod which ended in him briefly brushing his forehead to hers,

“You’re amazing, you know that?” He kissed Mary on the nose so her face crinkled into his favourite kind of grin,

“I do.” She giggled, “But I love you for reminding me.”

“Not as much as I love you.” John laughed, pulling away to wrap his arm around her shoulders. Both of them stepping around the mess of Sherlock’s tattered web to leave 221b. Ella made a distressed noise in Mary’s arms,  

“I know, darling we’re going home now,” Mary cooed, bouncing Ella in her arms as she leaned against John, “Although,” she mused, “Kinda disappointed we don’t get to see them.” Mary trailed off. Shaking his head, John reached around her to close the door behind them,

“He’ll find her. Don’t worry.” He said, as they headed down the stairs. Mary giggled, giving him a slightly patronising look,

“I’m not.” She grinned.

“Oh!” John got out his wallet as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Finding 50 quid, he held it out to Mary, “I think it’s safe to say you won that bet.” They were now outside in the pink summer dusk. The street lamps flickering and blinking to life up along Baker Street either side of them. Mary burst out laughing,

“Keep it and buy us all some tea later. I’m still starving!” she pushed his hand with the money away. Bundling Ella up against her shoulder as they reached the car,

“Home?” Mary suggested once they were all inside. Ella snoozing peacefully in the baby seat they had retrieved from the boot,

“Home.” John agreed, resting his head back against the seat as Mary started the car.

 

***

WHERE ARE YOU GOING? – M.H.

DID YOU TAKE MY CLEARENCE I.D?

WHERE’S MY WALLET, SHERLOCK?

Sherlock ignored Mycroft’s text as it flashed up on the phone in his lap. The cabbie was driving 20 km over the limit and had already knocked off his two side mirrors. The seat belt pushing up against his fractured ribs as the cab swerved around a group of motorcyclists was making Sherlock want to be sick. Groaning, he unbuckled his belt and leaned forward. Throwing his fist against the driver’s window, as he pulled some cash from Mycroft’s wallet in his pocket,

“I’ll give you another 50 quid if you hurry up!” he shouted. Sherlock barely had time to register the moan of the accelerator before he was thrown back against his seat. There was more swerving as the cabby hurled the cab down the freeway, but Sherlock’s grip never loosened on Irene Adler’s passport.

The odometer flashed at 150km an hour.

It could’ve said 3000. But this journey to Heathrow would still be the slowest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING AHHHHHH WE ARE SO CLOSE TO THE END I AM SO EXCITED!! ONE CHAPTER LEFT HOLY WOW!! Okay anyway, thank you all for reading and pretty pls comment if you can :) (or letzplaymurder.tumblr.com is my tumblr if you wanna chat) because feedback is amazing to get) I wanna talk about one of the big reasons I wrote this fic the way I did and since we’re near the end I feel like I can say it now (I’ll try and keep this rant as concise as I can, thank you in advance for reading if you do).  
> This fic focused a lot on the women of Sherlock. The majority of what happens in this plot is driven by the consequences of decisions made by the women.  
> So often the majority of male writers (which unfortunately is the majority in tv and film) believe that the strength of a “strong” female character must be the result of emotional or physical suffering. So often a “strong” female character is “strong” BECAUSE she is in love/heart-broken/tortured/sexually abused/grieving/wronged. They are never strong AND something, they are always strong BECAUSE something, while male characters are nearly always automatically seen as strong regardless. For over 100 years Irene Adler has been reduced to a love interest, damsel in distress, victim, and general bitch and/or almost always reduced to a ploy to make Holmes suffer through her own suffering. None of these things being what her original character was at all.  
> But then Lara played her and Steven Moffat wrote me a goddamned miracle. Here was a female character who was strong AND a sex worker AND clever AND vulnerable AND funny AND in love AND in control AND in danger AND dangerous. A perfect adversary perfect for Holmes in every way AND he was never her main focus. All those horrendous tropes that had become superfluous with Irene’s character like Holmes being the reason she breathed, Moriarty using her as a puppet, Irene being victimised for the sake of Holmes’ suffering, Moffat turned them all around so Lara’s Irene could burn them to the ground because she was who she was and made her own choices and she made mistakes because she was human. Here was an Irene Adler so freaking awesome that, unlike all the others before her, her Sherlock Holmes couldn’t even let her die for those mistakes. Even though she was ready to (the scene where he saves her legit gts me errytime).  
> I wanted Lara’s version of Irene to deal with all the other dumb tropes and burn them to the ground like she did for the others because I knew she could. But that meant putting her through some not fun stuff because if there is one thing smashing quartz stones in the backyard as a kid taught me it’s that if you wanna see just how awesomely glorious something is, you gotta smash at it a bit. In every chapter of this fic, I worked really hard to showcase why I love the characters in this show (specifically the ladies) because, unlike too many shows, Sherlock actually has characters whose “strength” is not defined or limited by traits, but is defined by their choices. Mary is not necessarily strong just because she’s an assassin. Sherlock is not necessarily strong because he is clever. Irene is not necessarily strong because of what she does. But there are too many shows where strength of a character is limitedly defined by these things. But not this show. In this show, characters are strong because they make their decisions, face the consequences of those decisions and take full responsibility for those decisions. It’s why I adore this show and I just wanted to show you guys that in this fic. Particularly with the women because they really are some of the most well written women on TV and I guess this fic in part was just me shouting about that. A lot. With explosions.
> 
> I hope that makes sense. I hope none of you ever thought at any point that I was “weakening” Irene for the sake of the plot alone. I love her a lot and I wish she was around on my screens more to show writers of other shows *side eyes game of thrones* that a woman’s/character’s strength is not exclusively defined by her physical condition, her relationships, her feelings, her skills or the horrors that befalls her because strength isn’t defined by these things. Strength is defined by choices.  
> Thank you all the people who took the time to message me and comment about my characterisation because you guys showed me that I was actually achieving what I set out to do. I’m sending you all lots of hugs and I’ll see you all next time for the finale  - love, merry xo


	13. Beyond Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Sherlock Holmes find Irene Adler in one of the world's busiest airports in time?

Heathrow Airport was a loud endless ribbon of scattered and divided queues. Each queue constantly moving and yet the place never emptied. Airports were strange like that. Massive structures built to facilitate people moving in the space between where they are and where they will be. Lines upon lines of people, each of them here for a different purpose, but they are all running, either to something, or from it. Too busy looking at where their feet are carrying them to be anyone other than who they are. These spaces between spaces where denial has no choice but to bow its head to the inevitability of leaving that permeates the air. Where the art of lying is all but lost in impatient snatches, first kisses, last glances and final farewells.

But the view from the corner of Irene Adler’s eye seemed invaded by the befuddled glances and tired frowns of bustling travelers. 

Another torrent of nausea and this dizzy spell almost floored her.

She had to get her heart-rate down. Her body didn’t have the blood to waste it screaming through her veins. Burning through her as if to burn him away. As if that would work. She clutched at the edge of a waste bin, willing herself to stay upright. Eyes squeezed shut against the spinning terminal, Irene cursed herself for not sitting in a chair, but she wanted to leave. London held nothing of use for her now.

Focusing on the sharp breaths she forced through her nostrils, the airport air tasted of dusty perfumes, disinfectant and instant coffee, but the metal of the waste bin was cool beneath her fingertips as she swallowed the air down in gulps. Cracking her eyes a fraction, there was a gaggle of backpackers huddled together and shooting whispering glances in her direction a few feet away. _Pack mentality_. No one will help because someone else will.

Not that she needed help. This violent disorientation would pass like the others. But while there were currently an abundance of unsavory thoughts concerning Sherlock Holmes stabbing at her brain, at least the last thing she would have called him was a bystander. Gritting her teeth, Irene tried desperately to back her thoughts away from where that last thought would lead, but they rolled in, one after another, on the backs of the waves of nausea threatening to drown her.

Sherlock had died. All those years ago his so called suicide had even reached her in Amsterdam and she hadn’t believed it. Not for a second. The idea he would save her and not himself was too ludicrous. After a year, however, her doubts got the better of her and spent the next months of her life living with a despicable ghostly emptiness. One that gnawed at the edges of her mind when the night got too quiet and fretted in the pit of her stomach, making her linger. Making her mourn. Of course, at the time she hadn’t wanted to admit that’s what she had been doing.

Now, Sherlock still believed he was saving her, a courtesy he was no longer extending to himself. But abandoning her would not save either of them and there was no salvation in the latter either.

Pushing back her short tangled hair from where it had stuck to her forehead, Irene’s breaths were still piercing her ears as she sucked down air, failing to calm the storm inside her chest. Her knuckles turning white, still gripping the waste bin. While her insides felt more and more like one big knot bending her back against the pain shooting through her torso from the knife wound between her ribs. She much preferred mourning Sherlock Holmes when he was dead.

However, without her passport, travel wasn’t necessarily impossible. The wad of cash Sherlock had retrieved for her would allow for a decent cash bribe. Of course, the inconvenient nature of her physical condition wouldn’t grant her the use of any other kind of coercion for a while. 

Forcing herself upright, her groan resulted in some creased foreheads and furtive stares from a large family nearby. _My apologies for ruining your holiday_ , she thought. Irene looked around. There was a travel agent some 30 meters ahead of her and some bathrooms beside it. Taking advantage of the sudden lack of vertigo tossing her brain against her skull, Irene headed towards the bathroom. Walking gingerly as she weaved in and out of the seething sea of people checking in.

But no sooner had she started walking, terminal 3 was spinning. Irene felt herself sinking. Her heartbeats raged like a tiny tempest in her chest, angering her blood to a swell that crashed into her bones. While the humming din of the airport, static thunder that blasted in her ears, made her want to throw up. There wasn’t a great deal convincing her to body to stay conscious.

But that was when she spotted him.

 

***

Sherlock skidded to a halt in the midst of a mingling mob of school children with his now un-bandaged fist clenched around Irene’s passport. Spinning on his heel, he glanced wildly around the departure area. She can’t have gotten far. She only had half an hour head start on him at most, but no familiar faces jumped out at him. With his pulse bashing against the surface of his skin, Sherlock pushed passed the disgruntled school teacher into the sea of lingering passengers.

Heathrow airport had 2 passengers arriving every second, 5 terminals and the entire airport’s capacity of over 100 million passengers. Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach as he glared up at the departure boards. They boasted and flashed 300 odd flights. Reaching into his inside pocket and wrenching out his phone, Sherlock punched in the number and brought it to his ear. It rang out, but his contact obviously had better things to do. Groaning, Sherlock pocketed the phone, resisting the urge to send it hurtling into the ground. He cast his mind around, _was there someone else he could-?_

“Looking for someone?” said a voice.

Everything. The whinging complaints of the school excursion gathered beside him. The clacking rumble of bags being dragged across the floor. The squeaks of trolley wheels, the clicks of heels, the dull puffs of slippers, the yawning, the bickering- static from radio communicators. Every sound, every cell in his body, his breath, his heartbeat, all of it. It all stopped, but for the sound of her voice.

Sherlock turned to face her. A whole 180 degrees because she’d snuck up behind him. All those odds; Five terminals, 2 passengers every second, 100 million travelers, all his deductions, 3 years of not knowing where she was, days believing she was dead or worse and she snuck up behind him.

Opening and closing his mouth, Sherlock’s words seemed to lodge themselves in the back of his throat as he let his eyes sweep over her. She was pale and swaying ever so slightly on the spot. But the corners of her mouth still twitched upward when his eyes inevitably were reunited with hers,

“That depends.” Sherlock swallowed. Almost stumbling towards her and holding out her passport in the small space that remained between them, “Did you lose something?”

Irene bit her lip, her eyes darting down to his outstretched hand before returning to his face,

“I don’t think so,” she replied, licking her lips as they finally curled into a smile and sending Sherlock’s heart into a frenzy against his rib cage, “Do you?” she asked.

His hand found hers at her side, tingling rippled across his skin from the touch of her fingers as he lifted her hand and pressed her passport into her open palm, “No,” Sherlock breathed into the space between them, looking up at her from their hands and closing her cool fingers around her passport with his own, “I don’t think so.” He finished.  Irene chuckled.

“You know, Mr Holmes,” Irene began, her voice slightly breathless, “I am not quite sure which of the two of us I want to slap more.” She swayed dangerously as her face went white. It was then Sherlock saw the beads of sweat trickling down her bruised forehead.

“At a wild guess, I’d say me.” Sherlock sighed. Keeping her hand in his, he twisted himself around to stand beside her. Wrapping the arm attached to her hand he had been holding around his shoulders and taking her weight, “But you won’t be slapping anyone, or getting on a plane for that matter, unless we get some fluids into you.”

“And you’re going to help me with that, are you?” she said with the ghost of a purr.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’ve observed there’s a distinctive relationship between the quality of your innuendos and your ability to remain standing.”

“In that my innuendos only ever improve?” she teased.

“Not quite.” He replied.

Supporting her carefully without agitating her stitches, together they headed over to the travel agent. Just before they reached it, however, Sherlock stopped beside a metal bench. Lowering Irene carefully down onto it before pulling out his phone.

“I am capable of walking, Mr Holmes,” she muttered.

“Oh, I don’t doubt your abilities, Miss Adler. Just their stamina when you’re operating with less blood volume and blood sugar than even a starving homeless vagrant would be accustomed to,” Sherlock replied. She scowled at him halfheartedly, leaning her head back on the concrete pillar behind her as Sherlock held his phone to his ear. Mycroft picked it up after the third ring.

“Sherlock, what-?”

“You apologised to Miss Adler and myself for - what was it – _inconveniencing_ us in relation to Sebastian Moran - correct?”

“Us-?” Mycroft echoed. Sherlock cut him off, his cheeks burning.

“You wanted me to relay that apology?”

“I believe I did.” Mycroft said, sounding puzzled, “It’s late, Sherlock. What’s going on?”

“I’m at Heathrow with Miss Adler.”

“Ah. I see. Let me guess, you want me to get her onto a flight?”

“Marvelous to see the trauma of your encounter with Sebastian Moran has not damaged your intelligence, brother dear,” chirped Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed, “Where does she want to go?”

“Where can she go?” Sherlock asked.

“Give me a moment.” Groaned Mycroft. For a few minutes Mycroft’s end of the line was silent, all bar from the occasional melodramatic sigh. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock observed Irene with her head resting on the wall behind her. She had closed her eyes for a moment and in doing so had regained some of the colour back in her cheeks. The knot in Sherlock's stomach loosened ever so slightly and he might have even smiled at the light bubble of relief in his veins. But then-

_“HOW ON EARTH DID YOU FORGET IT? Your plane leaves in 3 hours! There is no time for you to go back for it!”_

The outburst tore Sherlock's eyes away from Irene. A few feet from him stood a woman too young to be a mother dragging her fingers through her hair. Glowering at a man considerably younger than her,

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” The young man mumbled, “I put it down to say bye to mum. I just didn’t pick it back up.”

“Yeah, no shit,” replied the woman (who was most likely his sister), before whacking him across the head with the newspaper in her hand. “Well,” she sighed, “You won’t be calling anyone until you can buy a phone over there. Hope you didn’t have any last minute texts to send or nothin’”  

Something pulled at Sherlock’s insides, then. His eyes wondered back over Irene’s slumped form and, as they did, there was another twist. A dull stinging washed over him, making his bones feel hollow and for a fraction of a moment his fingers hovered over the end call button of his phone.

“I can get her first class to Tokyo, but the flight leaves in 90 minutes.” The sound of Mycroft’s voice made him flinch and Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. Shooting a last sideways glance at Irene, she still had her eyes closed and her head leaned back. After a long moment in which his eyes refused to pull away from her, he swallowed and responded,

“Thank you, brother mine.”

He could hear the frown in his brother’s voice, “I need her passport details, or rather the passport details she has acquired,” Mycroft said. Sherlock leaned down, taking Irene’s passport from her hand and glancing at the Identification page. The photo of her was a recent one. No doubt taken by the document forger. The name on the passport was Violet Hunter. Apparently, Violet was from Sweden. Sherlock returned Irene’s passport to her hand and recited the necessary details to his brother.

“Which terminal are you in?” Mycroft asked.

“3, near check in stations 34-46.”

“I’ve found you. There’s an Emirates travel desk somewhere to your left. Pick up her ticket from there.”

“Efficient as always, Mycroft.” Sherlock moved to hang up the phone.

“And Sherlock?” His brother’s voice had an abhorrent edge of concern to it. Cautiously, Sherlock brought the phone back up to his ear with a grimace. After a painful and silent minute Mycroft said, “Good luck.” and ended the call.

Pocketing his phone back inside his coat, Sherlock crouched down in front of Irene. Welcoming the distracting sting of his stitched up thigh wounds from the knot clenching down in his chest.

“So,” she said, her voice teetering on groggy as she leaned forward off the wall to look down into his face, “where am I going?”

“Tokyo.” He stated, offering her a hand to pull her to her feet.

“Oh,” Irene said in a voice as pleasantly surprised as her features. Her fingers wrapping around his as they both stood up, “I’ve never been. My Japanese isn’t too bad though, thanks to a pair of regulars with preferences for blindfolds. What about you?” she asked, letting go of his hand as they started walking over to the travel desk.

“I don’t like blindfolds,” he responded.

“Mr Holmes.”

He chuckled, “No, Miss Adler. I’ve never been to Tokyo.”

“How long?” she asked.

“The flight is about 12 hours.”

“That’s not what I was asking, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing. After a moment he stopped and turned his head to face her. Swaying though she was, Irene stopped too, looking up at him with a bemused expression with her pale eyes reflecting his. Sherlock inhaled a deep breath.

“Dinner?” he asked. His heart leaping into his throat as if it could jump from his mouth on the back of that single word. As he watched, Irene’s eyes widened. Her lips parting in silent shock as her eyebrows managed to rise halfway up her forehead, before she snapped her features back. But Sherlock let out a breath upon seeing that it was a slightly less convincing smirk than her usual.

“Finally hungry, are you?” she responded after a moment that could have been years. Shrugging, Sherlock returned her smirk in kind.

“Or it’s the end of the world,” he suggested, resisting the urge to grin, but she still hadn’t answered him, “Shall we?” He prompted. Irene considered him for a moment with one eye narrowed. Eyeing him up and down as if to assess whether he was joking. Clasping his left hand into a fist behind his back, Sherlock watched her eyes move down to the passport in her bruised hand, before returning to his face.

“The very last night,” she sighed. Echoing his memory so her voice felt like fingertips trickling down his spine. Sherlock observed her face. Feeling each nerve in his body squirm as every second she considered the offer ticked by. Nothing. She even looked away from him. Her eyes wandering over the airport’s surrounds as if she was looking for something. Whatever it was she didn’t find it. Her eyes only found his and when they did she said, with bitten back laughter and a smug twitch of her lips,

“Let’s have dinner, Mr Holmes.”

***

Ama wished her job description didn’t forbade her from rolling her eyes at newlyweds, but such was the curse of being a travel desk operator. Not that she hated her job per se. She just hated the lack of respect for the laborious bureaucracies of airports that newlyweds in particular seemed too wrapped in each other’s existence to even be aware of. Although, this one wasn’t too uninteresting. In fact, it had taken a considerable amount of Ama’s new training not to react at the sight of two such bruised and battered persons. Of course it was none of her business, but there was something about the couple that felt, well, _illegal_.

The gentleman was tall, dark haired and the way he held himself suggested he believed he was greatly important. He had stitches in his hairline above the cuts on his face, but Ama wondered where she had seen him before. Then, she hadn’t been living in London that long. Suddenly, he pulled his phone from his pocket,

“What?” he barked into the receiver. As Ama and the woman beside him watched, he became visibly agitated. Pressing his lips together tightly and glancing around, “How many?” he lowered his voice as he scratched his head, “Get it all. Make sure you get it all.” He hung up. The woman he was with handed Ama her passport, before addressing her partner,

“Who was that?” The woman asked. The man shook his head,

“One of my homeless network found something for an old case.” He answered quickly. The woman, whose name was apparently Violet Hunter according to her passport, frowned at him. Ama’s training was not complete, but she too could spot a liar.

“Will you be travelling alone, or with your partner, Miss Hunter?” interrupted Ama. Forgetting her supervisor had warned her against asking assuming questions. Eyes widening, Miss Hunter and the gentleman beside her failed to hide their alarm at the question. They were even blushing, but Ama couldn’t be sure for all the abrasions on their faces. “My apologies,” Ama mumbled. Miss Hunter cleared her throat.

“No. I will be travelling alone, thank you.” She said curtly. Holding out a hand as purple and bruised as her head to take her documents. Ama handed her the ticket and her passport, wondering if this was a passenger worth flagging. But she didn’t want to get a third warning on her record and while their behaviour was a little odd, it wasn’t exactly suspicious.

“I wish you a safe journey.” Ama settled on, finally. Ushering the strange couple through check in.

 

***

Irene Adler honestly hadn’t realised how hungry she was, but she supposed traumatic days without a proper meal would do that to you. Swallowing the last mouthful of her second bowl of pasta, she felt warmer. A stomach full of food, the weight of her injuries lifted ever so slightly and the world became just that little bit clearer.

Leaning back in her chair, she pushed her empty plate away from her towards Sherlock. He had devoured his meal almost as soon as it was presented to him. Indeed, they’d hardly spoken a word to each other since they had sat down and ordered.

The little pasta Café was empty and therefore quiet. It had been closing up, but Sherlock had flung 100 quid in the general direction of the owner. Muttering something about poorly cooked bolognaise still being the better choice between it and chicken nuggets from McDonalds.

“I take it your brother is paying for this meal,” she mused, leaning forward to sip her glass of lemonade.

“Indirectly.” Sherlock placed a wallet with the photo of his brother’s clearance I.D protruding from the folds on the small table between them. Irene chuckled at him. The sound of her laughter luring the tiniest of smiles to his lips as she sipped her drink. Feeling her racing pulse reverberate against her the tips of her fingers on the surface of the glass.

“But here we are.” She smiled, tracing her blackened finger around the rim of her glass.

“Where would that be exactly?” Sherlock asked, catching her eye and shooting her what was arguably her favorite crooked smile. _Dear lord, she had favorite facial expressions now?_

“Dinner,” she grinned. “Finally. Is it how you always pictured it?” She gestured ironically around the dimly lit empty Café. All its chairs were stacked unlovingly around them as they sat beneath one of many flickering fluorescent lights adorning it’s ceilings. Despite the pasta she had just finished, Irene could’ve sworn the place smelled like kebab.

“Assuming I pictured it at all.” Sherlock said, washing down the last of his water. “I believe you asked first.” He cleared his throat. Irene rolled her eyes at him,

“But we’re not sitting here because I asked first,” she said, fixing him with a pointed glare. “Are we?”

“No.” Sherlock held her gaze, “We’re not.” He looked away from her for a moment, “I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly. Turning his head back to look at her.

“Are you?” she replied.

“For what I said to you earlier,” he continued, “I do not think your decision to refuse Jim Moriarty was an idiotic one. A dangerous one, of course, but-”

Irene raised an eyebrow at him, “You're too kind, Mr Holmes,” she drawled, but he cut across her.

“Irene,” His voice was so low the sound of her own name seemed to vibrate in the depths of her chest, as if her heart were digging it's heels into the moment, “I am sorry.” He repeated.

“I know you are,” she said, holding his gaze for a moment before nodding at her passport sitting between their empty bowls. “I take it the Doctor and Mrs Watson were not convinced by your efforts either?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together before parting them in response, “No. They weren’t.”

“Can’t imagine why.” She smiled. Sherlock looked away from her again. His grazed cheeks taking on a rather pinkish hue in the dull flickering light, “How much easier life would be if we believed the lies we told everyone else,” Irene sighed.

“Lies don’t make the world simpler, Miss Adler.”

“Nor does the truth, Mr Holmes.”

“Something must.” He sighed, his voice hollow as if he’d just told a joke he didn’t find very funny. Nothing but the clatter of pans from the Café’s tiny kitchen echoed between them for a moment before,

“Knowing,” answered Irene. Sherlock blinked at her, “It is easier to know something and be sure of it. Truth, no matter how terrible or untrue, is far better handled than the unknown. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock’s brow had barely crinkled in response when-

" _Passengers on flight EQ 843 to Tokyo please make your way to Gate 55 as you will be boarding shortly."_

 The blissful haze of her two bowls of pasta seemed to deflate in her stomach as the announcement crackled off.

“It would seem we don’t have time for desert, Mr Holmes,” Irene sighed, her words slightly more wistful than she intended.

“Can you walk?” He asked, tugging his coat back on. Retrieving what seemed to be the last couple of 50 pound notes from the depths of his brother’s wallet and throwing them down onto the table.

“I suspect so,” Irene answered. Both of them rose to their feet to the scrape of chair legs, Sherlock collecting Irene’s passport and tucking in both their chairs before moving around to walk beside her. His body tense, ready to spring. Irene cocked her head to the side, eyeing him up and down,

“Sherlock, I don’t feel faint anymore. I’m okay.” She said, trying her best to sound reassuring instead of irritated as they walked past the various closed clothing shops and eating outlets Heathrow housed,

“Yes.” Sherlock responded .

“You can’t follow me through customs. You’re not a passenger.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock pulled his brother’s security clearance I.D from Mycroft’s wallet, “But I am making sure you get on that plane.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed, “Doesn’t that have your brother’s photo on it?” she asked, nodding at the I.D. Sherlock simply shrugged at her, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips that sent heat rushing to her own cheeks despite the cool air-conditioned air. Irene took a breath in a futile effort to soothe her ecstatic heartbeats, but beneath it all that sinking tug in the pit of her stomach tightened as they reached customs. Walking past husbands, wives, partners, mothers and fathers, hugging their departing briefly or otherwise in teary tiring farewells.

It was no surprise to Irene that an officer pulled her out of line almost immediately for an apparently random full body search. With bruised black hands, no luggage and her equally as grazed complexion, she would have been more surprised if they hadn’t. But Sherlock quickly saw to that with a flash of his brother’s clearance card and a quick quiet word to one of the officers. Irene thought she saw the man give Sherlock a yellow form and a small bag of…something, but he pocketed before she could make out its contents. Frowning, Irene was about to walk over to him when-

“Miss Hunter, is it?” Another officer. Female. Quite tall with a booming voice. Irene smiled at her.

“Yes?”

“Just checking your flight details. My name is May. I’m the manager for your flight to Tokyo.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Irene said with an even voice.

“Thank you, Miss Hunter, but the seat you’re booked into was not booked an hour ago. According to our records it was booked after the final check in call. Additionally, you have no luggage.”

“Is there a problem?” Irene asked,

“It’s my job to ferret out potentially suspicious passengers and-”

“There you are, darling!” Sherlock’s voice made Irene very nearly jump as his warm fingers entwined with hers and he joined her at her side, “Sorry,” His voice was laughably higher than usual as part of the facade, “Bit of problem with our bags. Tagged wrong, can you believe it, dear?” Sherlock shook his head over dramatically at Irene while he handed a yellow form to May.

“No,” said Irene. Matching his squeaky impersonation, trying not to wince or giggle as she let her next words roll off her tongue, “ _darling_. I can’t. Who on earth would believe this?” She exclaimed with obvious sarcasm, her heart clenching at her ribs. May looked unimpressed, her eyes darting warily between them up from the piece of paper Sherlock had handed her. Sighing, she handed him back the yellow form,

“My apologies. Move along.”

Sherlock beamed at May until she shuffled away and his over-enthusiastic mirage fell away from his features. All but his fingers, which remained firmly and effortlessly bound around hers as he pulled her along side him through the rest of customs.

The waiting area at Gate 55 was not crowded. Many of the grey seats sat vacantin their rows and the ones that were occupied were spread out. Scattered flecks of life yawning and stretching as they waited to depart this land. The night outside pressed in against the tall glass windows, but the distorted reflections of the bright florescent lights kept it at bay. Dulling the darkness.

Irene and Sherlock settled themselves into seats with their backs to the windows. From the corner of her eye, Irene saw a flight attendant walk up to the desk and start up the computer. The knot in her stomach clenched and pulled her gaze back to Sherlock. He was looking straight ahead, unblinking. His cool colored eyes burning as if his thoughts were an inferno only he could see.

“You’re right,” He said in a voice as far away as his eyes. “You’re right,” He repeated, blinking as if pulling down his eyelids could pull him back to reality. “3 days ago,” he broke off, shaking his head, “I knew you were hurt. I knew you were afraid. I knew you were lying to me.” Irene pressed her lips together as he continued, “But knowing that,” he took a breath, “at least I knew you were alive. I’d started to think-” he trailed off, “Knowledge is cruel, but it is still kinder than ignorance. Awareness offers a certain kind of reckless peace, still preferable to the war of speculation.” He turned his head to meet her gaze and she held it. Held it as if holding it would slow down the seconds ticking by with each thud of her heart and the words poured from her lips before she could stop them.

“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” she asked. Sherlock frowned at her, but she continued, “Why let the world believe you’re dead? Jim was still alive, after all.”

Sherlock looked away from her out across the sprawling rows of seats filled with passengers too immersed in their smart phones to see him looking. Several moments passed by, every one of them setting Irene’s nerves ablaze, but when he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper,

“I didn’t do it to convince the world I was dead, Irene,” he said gently. Turning his head to look down at her. Irene could feel the body heat from his shoulder seeping into her own. They were so close, sitting side by side. “I did it to convince him.”

It was Irene’s turn to frown, feeling her heart in the back of her throat, “You-?” She took a deep breath, “You needed Jim Moriarty to believe you were dead?”

Sherlock nodded beside her, “Moriarty’s network was always the vastly bigger threat than he could ever be. A spider might die, but flies can still get caught in the web the spider leaves behind and I had no hope of dismantling this network while he was too distracted by me.”

“So, you commit suicide?”

“I let him believe he’d beaten me, yes,” Sherlock replied, but Irene’s head was spinning as he continued, “Moriarty’s plan to kill me was quite convenient in that regard. Jim was never going to believe I was dead if the people who cared about me didn’t believe it either.”

“Dr Watson-” she started, frowning.

“And Mrs Hudson and Inspector Lestrade.” He finished.

“Miss Hooper?”

Sherlock shook his head at her, “I needed her. To stay alive and to stay dead, I needed her.”

“What about your brother?”

Sherlock sighed, “Moriarty believed he’d defeated Mycroft and ergo would not be paying him any further attention. Which meant he could tell our parents.”

Irene swallowed and looked away from him. At the edge of her vision, she saw Sherlock eyeing her with apprehension etched over his features.

“You did it all so he’d leave your world alone while you destroyed his,” she said, turning her head back to look at him as he nodded. “You knew he was alive.”

“I knew if I could fake my death there was no small chance Moriarty wouldn’t fake his.”

“Does Dr Watson know any of this?” She asked.

“Some of it. Something about telling John his grief was part of an elaborate illusion to keep him safe seemed insensitive.”

Irene shot him a hollow laugh “To say the least,” she muttered, biting her lip and inhaling slowly through her nose.

“I needed him to think I was dead, Miss Adler. I did not know if he was watching you. Nor did I know where you were.”

“I know that. You don’t need lecture me on the political complications of not being dead when you’re meant to be, but Moran said you found me.”

Sherlock’s laugh was humorless, “Not in the way that you think.” Irene tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze with the most expectant glare she could muster. Sherlock sighed as if his voice was a shrug, “You walked past me.”

Irene blinked, “What?”

“Paris. About 4 months after I-” Frowning, Sherlock shook his head, “Things had started to all blur together. I was tailing the mercenary at the head of Moriarty’s Paris syndicate.” He gave her a sad little smile, “and you walked straight past me at 10 O’clock in the morning, October 12th on the Rue Dareau. Wearing the same perfume you’d worn when you were alive.” He trailed off, “Your hair was still long.” He stopped. “Not that I have any particular inclinations when it comes to your hair, I mean. It’s short now.”

“How observant of you,” Irene frowned, cutting off his rambling for fear he was going to implode. “I lived there for six months,” she mused, “but I hated Paris. Still, it’s a good place to hide. Unless you’re French, most Parisians don’t look twice at you.”

“I thought about going after you,” he said.

“Why didn’t you?” she asked. Sherlock blinked as if he was surprised she’d heard him.

“Because,” he paused, his eyes not leaving hers. His shoulder brushing her own as he sat beside her. “Because I wanted Moriarty to leave my world alone,” he said. Irene held his gaze until it seemed to sting her eyes and it was a long moment before he spoke again. “And love is a dangerous disadvantage,” he finished bitterly.

Sherlock jumped in his seat as Irene actually burst out laughing. The movement stinging the dry skin of her cheeks as she did. Clutching her stomach as her knife wound groaned with the outburst, before the fit finally subsided into a chuckle and she reigned her emotions in enough to reply, rather breathlessly,

“You can see so much,” she breathed, feeling her cheeks warm as she smiled manically. “Everything, but you can’t see my head, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed as she spoke, “Can you actually see me?” Sherlock’s eyes widened and without a word, he reached his hand up. Cupping his fingers gently around the back of her neck, he twisted his body towards her, leaned down and pressed her forehead against his, her giggling ceasing in a tiny gasp.

“Yes,” he whispered, tilting his head up the tiniest fraction to brush his lips lightly against her forehead, “I can see you, Miss Adler.”

Irene grinned, “Good.Then you know you’re not entirely right.” An inescapable warmth spread from where his lips touched her head. Fueling her heart as it danced between her ribs and warming her right to the tips of her fingers and toes so she could have forgotten her aching body. Closing her eyes, his curls tickled the skin of her forehead as his free hand curled around her fingers in her lap over the armrest between their seats.

“ _Passangers on Flight EQ 843 to Tokyo, boarding will commence in 5 minutes.”_

“I’m sorry I never told you I was alive,” Sherlock whispered so his breath rushed across her lips and sending every atom in her body haywire. As if every part of her was running towards him, “It seems I owe you a thousand apologies,” he said.

Irene chuckled, “A number only equal to the amount I owe you. Particularly in the ‘I’m not dead department.’”

“You don’t owe me anything, Miss Adler. Not now. Not ever.”

“Nor you me, Sherlock.” She sighed into his lips, pulling one of her hands out from beneath his in her lap and lifting it to rest on his cheek, “My choices aren’t yours to burden yourself with. They are mine and mine alone. Just as yours are. But please,” Irene opened her eyes to find he was looking right at her. Their foreheads still pressed together, his hand still holding the back of her head as her hand rested on his cheek, “Please,” she repeated. Her voice shook and she felt his thumb leave her hand in her lap to brush across her cheek, “Please, don’t choose to let Jim destroy you.” Irene wanted to kick herself as tears stung the backs of her eyes, “His obliteration is not worth your own. It never has been.”

“Is that what you told him?”

Irene smiled at him, her nose against his, “You saved my life once and you’ve saved it since. From him. From others. Don’t imagine your life is worth nothing beyond the destruction of Jim Moriarty's. He wants you to think that,” she gave his hand a squeeze in the space between them. “Remember he is wrong,” she whispered. Their lips were so close her chest might burst.

_“First class passengers on flight EQ 843 to Tokyo, please make your way to Gate 55 as boarding has now commenced for First Class passengers.”_

The messaged repeated and crackled off. Irene’s hand dropping from his face as Sherlock leaned away from her and rose to his feet. Taking her to her feet with him with their hands still clasped together in the slither of space Sherlock maintained between them.

Irene cleared her throat, “Passport?” she asked, fire raging beneath her cheeks. Igniting her bones, spreading to every atom from where her fingers still held his. With his free hand, Sherlock produced her passport from the inside pocket of his coat. The tail ends of her ticket sticking out from it’s edges as she took it from him, his eyes never leaving hers all the while.

“Take a picture, Mr Holmes.” Her voice shook, involuntarily, “It will almost certainly last longer. Although,” she paused, “according to Mrs Hudson, you have plenty of those.” Sherlock’s cracked lips pressed together into a smile as they both chuckled, watching each other’s faces turn red. “They wouldn’t happen to be from my old website, would they?” she teased, but her lips didn’t form the rest of the taunt. Instead, they simply found his and whatever little space that Sherlock had kept between them vanished into the cool touch of his fingers gently tilting her chin up towards him.

Irene’s pulse felt like waves crashing over her eardrums as she closed her eyes. The passport and ticket falling away from her hand as she raised it to trace her fingers down his jawline, as if to memorize his face with her fingertips, before settling them on his cheek. Pulling his face down closer to hers and falling into the kiss she would never ever admit that she had imagined.

His lips tasted like the cheap tomato sauce that had been on the pasta they had both eaten and she smiled beneath their touch as they moved over hers. Chuckling into his lips whenever one of them paused for breath because, after an immeasurable space of time, she could feel him smiling too. With his hand still curled around hers, holding it against his chest so she could feel his heart hammering  against the back of her hand. Perhaps it was her own pulse, but she couldn’t separate the two anymore than she could separate their lips. So aware of him and only him. How when he stopped to breathe, his curls pressed against the top of her head, how the small bandage across the ridge of his nose tickled against her nose as the kiss became clumsier. How even as he relaxed into the kiss, his grip around her hand only tightened against his chest, but she didn’t want to let go either.

Irene Adler had never felt safe. Her entire life (and after-life), she had fought to keep herself as protected as possible, but she had never felt safe. Not ever. Until she met Sherlock Holmes. Even when he’d betrayed her, some part of her had still felt safe because no one had ever wanted her to be safe like he did. She was supposed to have died. Her entire life, but he was the only one other than herself who ever wanted to save it. Irene Adler was dead to the world, but she was safe with Sherlock Holmes. How deplorable that his final effort to rescue her was separating them.

Irene pulled her lips away from his. Listening to their rapid breaths filling the space where their lips had been joined, she almost jumped when the sound was joined by a smattering of applause from the passengers lined up behind Sherlock. Opening her eyes, she saw an older looking Japanese woman give her the thumbs up over Sherlock’s shoulder and she felt herself blush beneath his fingers.

“We have an audience, Miss Adler,” he said in a voice as gentle as the touch of his forehead against hers. She giggled, laughing at the thought that they were anyone. Anyone worth applauding for sharing a kiss before the last flight to Tokyo left Heathrow.

“I think you’re going to miss me, Irene Adler,” he teased in a voice that was barely above a purr, beating her to wiping the tear away from her cheek.

“Please, In your daydreams,” she managed shakily, giving him a smile. "You'll miss me, Sherlock Holmes," she said.

His eyes shone as they looked down into hers, “Unfortunately,” he gave her hand a quick squeeze before loosening his grip around her fingers, “yes,” he finished. Irene bit her lip, “Be careful,” he whispered as she wiggled her hand free of his and settled it on his other cheek. As if her hands were now holding his head against hers, “Please, be careful.” He whispered,

“Goodbye, Mr Holmes,” she said, her voice strangled as Sherlock lifted his hands to pull hers away from his cheeks. Clasping her hands between his in the space between them, he swallowed.

“Goodbye, Miss Adler,” he said, lifting his forehead from hers so his lips could give her head one final kiss, before letting go of her hands, “and good luck.” 

***

Sherlock could still feel his heart singing in every nerve his blood rushed through. The echoes of her fingers tracing down his burning cheeks, still made his reflection as flushed as he felt as he stared out the tall windows after her plane. As if his body still thought she was here, but the plane was 20 minutes departed and she was 20 minutes gone when Sherlock’s phone rang.

Tearing his eyes away from the plum purple patch of dusk the final flashing lights of the A380 plane had disappeared into, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. With every flash of the unknown number, the phone vibrated between his fingers and it was a few moments before, brow furrowed, Sherlock pressed the phone to his ear.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Do you need a tissue, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s blushing blood turned to stone around his bones. Every cell in his body freezing over at the sound of that icy voice in his ear. No matter where Sherlock heard it, no matter where it was, that voice always felt like breath. Breathing down the back of his spine somewhere just beyond the corner of his eye. The saliva evaporated from his mouth before he could respond.

“Honestly, even I teared up.” The voice teased into the phone, “I’m a wreck. You were both sooooooooooooooooooooooooo sweet.” He relished the _t,_ kick-starting Sherlock’s heart so his hand balled into a fist at his side. “I didn’t think either of you had it in you. Sometimes I love being proved wrong. I’m so glad she convinced Moran to keep her alive. Not at first, but-”

“You tried to kill her,” Sherlock spat through gritted teeth.

“Surely the pair of you are used to that by now, really.” Jim sighed, giggling.

“Stop it.”

“Why?” Jim drawled, “Because you loveeeeeee her?” He made a sound akin to a gag reflex. Sherlock could feel himself shaking, “I don’t think I will, dear. Not now, sorry!” Jim chirped, “You see, ‘tried to kill her’ implies that I failed-”

“You did fail,” Sherlock retorted, trying to keep his sharp breaths in check. “She’s not dead.”

Jim made tutting sound, “That’s so adorable. She said the exact same thing.” Sherlock could feel warm blood dripping between his fingers from where his nails dug into the cuts Moran’s bonds had left on his hands. “Look at the big picture!” Jim continued, “Come on, Sherlock. Don’t let me down. You didn’t let her down. ”

Sherlock almost dropped the phone. His vision blurring as his mind dragged its way through the tatters of his web that lay strewn on the floor of 221b. John, Mary, Ella, Molly, Lestrade - _Her_. All their faces punctuating every detail as each broken string, reattached itself to a thought in his mind. Reforming into the web until he gasped as it hung in all its glory before him in his mind’s eye.

“You want me to have everything.” The words fell like stones from his lips into his chest, “You want them to have everything-” The phone shook against his ear, “Before you take it.”

“I told you, Sherlock.” His voice had a gleeful edge to it that made Sherlock want to tear him apart, “I _told_ you I was going to burn the heart out of you. I just had to wait until you had one worth burning. Speaking of which,” Jim’s voice became menacing, “interesting thing about planes. Especially those big ones. Just takes one spark in the wrong place and-” He made a sickeningly enthusiastic parody of a ‘ka boom’ noise, “Oh well,” he jeered, “At least you got to say goodbye.”

Silence pressed in around Sherlock. The departure gate was empty. No planes were arriving. The last one had just left and taken Irene Adler with it, but the best part about the silence was the palpable one in Sherlock’s ear. Broken only by the faintest of groans from Jim Moriarty as after a few minutes Sherlock heard Jim sigh, “What did you do? You naughty boy,” he said. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the hand sized plastic pouch his contact had given him as he and Miss Adler had gone through customs,

“That’s the thing about planes,” Sherlock echoed Jim’s words as he twirled the tiny metal object in between his scarred fingers, “one spark in the wrong place and-” he broke off. “Unless, of course, you know what you’re looking for.” Jim said nothing as Sherlock continued, “You tried to blow John and me up, once. Now my brother and Irene Adler,” Her name felt like fire burning off his lips, “I’ve noticed how you like to dispose of the people that bore you, Jim.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with disgust as his heart slammed loudly in his ears,

“Fireworks,” Jim sighed,

“Predictable,” spat Sherlock, “You tapped my brother’s phone when you paid Miss Adler her hospital visit.” His voice was a growl into the receiver, “Your resources are running dangerously low, Jim. I know because I spent two years personally seeing to their depletion and Mary just killed your last useful surviving asset.” Sherlock paused, breathing hard, “Your move.”

“If I’m so _predictable,”_ he rolled the word around his mouth, “then why don’t you tell me what it is.”

“You’re going to lose your little game, Jim. Even Miss Adler could see that. But listen to me very very carefully,” Sherlock said each syllable as if they were bullets he was loading into a gun, “Irene Adler will not be playing.” And without another word, Sherlock ended the call. Turning on his heel, he stormed away from the empty departure gate and tossed Jim’s disabled trigger device into the first waste bin he could find.

When he finally reached the cab rank outside, Sherlock tossed his head back and let the cool summer night air wash over him. His lanky shadow cast by the tall light above the empty cab spaces crumpling as he rummaged through his pockets for a cigarette. They yielded nothing. Sherlock swore underneath his breath, _John –_ and licked his lips.

He froze.

 _They tasted like lemonade._ Like the lemonade she had been drinking. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the late night breeze play across his skin. But it didn’t chase away the ghost of her fingertips on his cheek, or the taste of her lips curling his own into a smile as he settled himself into the cab and headed back to Baker Street.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I finished this, after a year and a half of planning and writing...Happy international kissing day! Happy 125th Anniversary to Irene and Sherlock and the publication of A Scandal In Bohemia and many happy returns to you if you read this to it's end. Thank you everyone. Please leave a comment in any way that you can (this is the last chapter and all). There maybe a chapter of deleted scenes and such to come, but my story for them ends here. ALSO, there is a playlist for this fic here if you want to listen:
> 
> http://8tracks.com/merryxxx/cover-your-tracks  
> my tumblr: letzplaymurder.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you all. I hope you had as much fun as I did.  
> All my love, Merry xox


	14. Deleted Scenes & Alternate Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a handful of deleted scenes and alternative scenes/perspectives from the preceding tale. Each one is separated by a line break and my short explanation of why I delteted the scene is in bold italics. Enjoy and thank you for reading xox.

**_I originally intended to write nearly this whole fic from Irene’s perspective, but decided if I wanted to a)  write it more episode-y  and b) draw out the mystery of Irene’s injuries and c) keep things moving, I should switch it up as needed. But this is how I originally began chapter 2 before I decided to write it in John’s/Sherlock’s._ **

Irene Adler clamped her mouth shut, trying to do nothing but wince as she pushed herself through the open window and fell into Sherlock Holmes’ laundry. A pile of mud covered trousers broke her landing, while clothes scattered in slumping piles all around her muffled her fall. Irene crinkled her nose at more than just the sight of them. Something like sulphur permeated the air too.

Irene pulled her right leg through the window and got to her feet. Straightening herself up with a groan she was barely able to stifle, she took a few moments to catch her breath. They were coming in quick gasping bursts that weren’t so much from the effort of running, but the unfortunate symptom of the pain that felt like a fists attempting to drag the bones of her ribs from their place in her torso.

_But if she was being forced to face Sherlock Holmes she would not do so like this._

Surrounded by Sherlock’s apparently long forgotten laundry, Irene wiped the sweat from her forehead, pulled the gloves she had pick pocketed out of her own pocket and pulled them over her hands.

Moran had been so careful, as long as she was wearing the gloves her injuries would be invisible. The last thing she was here for was Mr Holmes’ ‘I told you so’, or worse, his pity. Biting her tongue, Irene bent down to pick up the box she had been clutching. It had fallen into a pile of Sherlock’s shirts, two of which, she noticed, were bloodstained-

“I DON’T KNOW!”

The sound of his shout  almost made her scream as the box slipped through her gloved fingers back onto the pile of clothes and she whirled around, half expecting him to be glowering in the laundry’s narrow doorway. Heart hammering in her ears, Irene moved slowly towards the sound of his voice. Her footfall was so quiet she might have been a ghost.

“What do you want me to say, John?” Sherlock’s voice was a scratch down glass, “Want me to tell you how I infiltrated a terrorist cell alone and saved her after months of letting everyone, including her, believe that I hated her?!”

Irene felt her bones turn to ice. _Was he-?_

“Or perhaps how it was me that told her never to contact me under any circumstances?”

_He was. He was talking about her._

Irene swallowed, reaching the living room just as Doctor Watson responded, “Sherlock, I-”

“Or that if anyone stupid enough finds that out now they will draw the conclusion that Moriarty’s resurrection is my doing as well?” Sherlock’s voice cut through Doctor Watson’s without mercy. From her place in the hallway she could see Doctor Watson’s jaw moving soundlessly as Sherlock reached her line of vision, dragging his slender fingers through his curls.  Irene bit her lip.

The last time she had seen him was less than a year ago. His eyes had barely been open and there had been a rather impressive puddle of drool beside his mouth as he lay against the pillows of his hospital bed. His skin had been so pale from the blood loss, it had made those curls look black rather than brown and they had been the only thing that prevented him from blending right into those white hospital sheets. As she watched him now, she wondered whether he remembered he had woken up and asked her, in a voice as quiet as a memory, to please be careful. A piece of advice her bruised and fractured ribs attested she did not follow.

Still, as Sherlock paced wildly round the room, Irene thought he looked just as pale now as he did then. Her stomach twisted with something other than the week long absence of food as Sherlock continued shouting,

“Or perhaps how I did all that in a pathetic,” he spat the word, “pitiful effort to keep one other person safe from Jim Moriarty. But as per usual, Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock’s voice oozed with loathing, “has made sure that that is irrelevant!” Without warning, Sherlock flung the contents of his desk to the floor. Irene jumped, but before Doctor Watson could even get a word in, Sherlock was standing directly in front of him. Irene’s lungs went as still as the rest of her though neither of the two men had yet noticed her presence barely 6 feet from them in 221b’s living room.

“You want to know if she’s alive.” Sherlock growled at Dr Watson, “You want to know,” Sherlock chuckled but there was no humour behind it and Irene’s recent thought of being ghostlike suddenly seemed considerably less amusing.  “You want to know.” He repeated, his voice fading. _Doctor Watson had asked about her? Why?_ “Tell Mary I appreciate her concern.” Sherlock said. Irene was frowning.

“How did you-?” Doctor Watson asked.

“You didn’t know I was lying before and I know she’s been reading your blog.” Sherlock's voice was robotic, “You should probably return to your family, I have work to do.”

The concern etched across Doctor Watson’s face as Sherlock turned away from him to shuffle around some papers on the floor might have been an exact replica of her own, if Sherlock hadn’t turned to look directly at her.

Since she had made the decision to come here, Irene had resisted the temptation to imagine what this moment would be like when it happened. The moment when he saw her, when their eyes met properly for the first time in 5 years. But whatever she may or may not have imagined, the last thing she expected was for him look away, shaking his head as if she was a film he’d seen too many times. Hell, as Doctor Watson reached the door, it was almost as if Sherlock was trying not to look at her.

A splintered sort of anger pooled in the back of her chest, non-specific to who or what she was angry at. Sherlock looked at her again, but the way his eye twitched she might have been a fly buzzing against a window that had disturbed his train of thought.

Then, she realised and her questions regarding Sherlock’s memory were answered.

Her heart did something akin to a backflip in her chest as he looked at her again. All those powers of observation, yet it was as if he no longer saw her. Irene’s empty stomach tangled itself into a knot. _Because he was used to seeing her._ Despite it all, she almost giggled at the word ‘daydream’ as it danced at the edge of her thoughts.

But Sherlock’s days of daydreaming her presence had reached their bittersweet end.

Irene took a breath, cleared her throat and, “That was _touching_.” She teased as Doctor Watson froze in the doorway.

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**_This is an alternate scene from Chapter 12. Chapter 12 was tricky. There were lots of people involved and in my original plan John was with Irene when she woke, not Mary. I couldn’t decide which so I wrote both scenes, but decided to go with Mary being there because it just felt nicer and I feel very strongly about the lack of female/female interaction in Sherlock. But here’s John’s scene anyway. The Adler/Watson relationship (I use the term very generally) is always something I like to play with._ **

John Watson was applying a band-aid to Irene’s incision wound when she started to stir. Her eyes darting about behind their closed lids as her breaths became a little less even. A small groan escaped her lips and she moved restlessly. John leaned back in the chair he was sat in beside Sherlock’s bed,

“Miss Adler?”

A sharp intake of breath through her nose told John Miss Adler had heard him, but her ability to respond had not yet returned from sleep. Irene’s eyes fluttered open, her eyes darting around in bemusement, but soon narrowed mutinously against the afternoon sunlight pouring into Sherlock’s bedroom. As a Doctor, John had always found it amusing how childlike people became when they were waking up. Irene tried to sit up. Instinctively, John rested his hands on her shoulders, supporting her as she sat up and forward with a groan,

“Easy.” He muttered, glancing behind him at Sherlock’s bedroom door, before returning his attention to her, “You’ve been asleep for a long while.” Removing his hands from her shoulders, John reached behind him and picked up the glass of water he’d placed on Sherlock’s nightstand and handed it to her, just as the colour practically sprinted away from her cheeks,

“You’re going to feel a little off. Here-” He placed the cup in her hands, “You lost a lot of blood.” Irene squeezed her eyes shut as a green twinge mixed with the paleness of her face.

“Is that your professional observation, Doctor?” She muttered with the faintest hint of her old sarcasm, keeping her eyes shut.

John felt the corners of his lips twitch, “Yep.” He nodded. “Drink up.” 

Irene scowled at him before bringing the cup to her lips. After a minute or so she drained the glass, her cheeks already lacking in green as she handed the cup back to him. When John turned back from placing the cup back on Sherlock’s night stand, Irene was plucking absently at the bandaid on her wrist,

“Lost a lot of blood.” She echoed his words.

“At least 2 pints, I’d say. We gave you a transfusion.” John answered, “Lucky Molly got your blood type.”

“Oddly enough ‘lucky’ isn’t the phrase that comes to mind at the moment.” Her voice was raspy, but there was nothing unsteady in it. John suddenly felt sheepish as her pale eyes settled on his.

“I can imagine.” He muttered.

“Is Moran dead?” she asked.

John nodded.

Irene’s shoulders relaxed, “How long have I been asleep?” she said, looking around with practiced interest before her eyes found her own torso and frowned.

“A day and a half.” John replied as Irene’s forehead continued to crease at the sight of Sherlock’s grey pyjama shirt they had clothed her naked torso in, “You needed a proper rest.” John added, but it was his turn to frown as the faintest of laughs escaped Miss Adler’s lips.

“What’s funny?” He asked. Blinking, Irene looked up from Sherlock’s shirt as if she’d forgotten John was there.

“Nothing. Just-” She was looking at him, but her pale eyes were anywhere but here, “History doesn’t repeat itself alone.” She said.

“No.” replied John with a sigh after a moment, answering the question she hadn’t asked, “I mean, there is no history without people to make it in the first place, is there?” He said.

Irene’s laugh was benign, “So, nothing really changes.” She mused, tugging absently at Sherlock’s shirt.

“Oh,” said John, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning, “I wouldn’t say that. Sometimes retracing your steps, coming back to somewhere-” He trailed off, “Makes you realise how much things change.” He took a breath, “And how stupid you were trying to convince yourself they don’t.”

Irene shot him a smile, “I suppose we’ll find out.” She sighed. John bit his lip, looking away from her.

“Doctor Watson?”   

He looked up, “Yes,” He cleared his throat, “Miss Adler?”

“You’re a good man. That’s a rare thing and you have far more important things to do than blame yourself for the actions of ones as vile as Sebastian Moran.” She almost spat his name.

“I know-” He said, “Thank you.” Irene smiled at him again before looking away from him and the question came out of his mouth before he could think better of it, “Sherlock said you saw Jim.”

It was strange. Nothing about her changed. Her body didn’t shift from its slumped position. Her face remained almost entirely neutral, all but her eyes. Her eyes seemed to shrink and for a moment, John thought he could see through them to the swirling dark thoughts he had brought forth with his question.

“Among other things.” She answered, in a voice that might have been acid drawn from her lips. Pressing his own lips together and frowning, John leaned forward. He had the strange urge to reassure her. She seemed so frightened, she always had underneath all that bravado. But what could he say? He had no idea what. Jim Moriarty insured their world was the furthest thing from reassuring. John tried not to think about his own baby daughter, resisting the urge to pointlessly check for the sound of Mary’s returning footfall again.

“Hey,” John sighed, breaking the silence between them, “You don’t have to tell me, alright? I shouldn’t have asked. It’s between you and Sherlock, you just want to tell him, its fine.” He meant it too. 

Irene laughed mirthlessly, “Wouldn’t that be nice?” she muttered, fixing her pale eyes on him. The look of pity she gave him was striking. As if her eyes were fingers twisting his insides.  John clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. He knew that look. That look said, it wasn’t fine _. Why weren’t Mary, or Sherlock back yet?_ Then, as if she had heard his thoughts,

“Where is he?”

John didn’t want to say that he didn’t know, “He won’t be long.” He said. Irene raised an eyebrow at him while John silently cursed himself for lying to someone far more skilled in the art than himself. She adjusted herself in Sherlock’s bed and John had a feeling she was going to try and get up.

“So, he isn’t here?” Irene asked with a kind of casual interest that suggested to John that she perhaps wasn’t as good a liar as he credited her for. But she was good. Once again, her features were neutral, but she stopped tugging absently at Sherlock’s shirt for the first time in minutes.

“He’s in bad shape too, you know.” John wasn’t sure if he was defending Sherlock’s absence, or reassuring her despite it, “The pair of you- fractured ribs, bruising both external and internal, stab wounds, multiple stitchings – Moran hurt you both badly.” John decided to leave out Sherlock’s nightmares and the mental breakdown at Bart’s, he cleared his throat, “Lucky you’re both here, really. Relieved you aren’t actually dead, again.” He added. Unsure if he was trying to be funny.

“You mean that do you?” Her voice had an edge to it John couldn’t help but think was childish. As if she was trying to get him to say something else.

He rubbed his eyes, “Yes.”

“And I thought you said I was just a client.” Her voice was almost icy, but John could hear something humorous behind it.

“Look around, Miss Adler.” John sighed, “You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re just Sherlock’s client.” Her eyes flickered to the blood bag Molly had provided, down to Sherlock’s shirt and over himself. Though she looked away from him, John saw a splash of pink creep into her pale cheeks.

“Yes,” she said, looking pointedly at him, “Sherlock is certainly lucky.”

He smiled back at her, “Do you want to get up?” John asked after a moment.

“Thank you.” She replied, giving him something quite close to a grateful smile as he stood up and took the chair away from the bedside to give her some room.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**_There were aspects of this fic I made up as I went along. I knew I wanted the pain of Irene’s injuries to eventually escalate to something she wasn’t able to bare unnoticed quite quickly and so I thought I wanted to reveal the exact nature of these injuries when she passes out in Chapter 4.  However, I decided half-way through writing Chp 4 that I wanted the explanation of her injuries to be heard (first and only) by Sherlock. Nonetheless, this is (part of) Mycroft’s arrest as perceived by a very unstable Irene Adler (another reason why I decided not to write this scene from her POV in the final draft)._ **

Irene’s breath was a rattle she was straining to drag through her lungs. Her weak breaths might have been a flame, her blood gasoline, burning through her as she fought to stay with them all. She focused on the pinching pain of the elastic bonds twisting her arms behind her back and willed her vision to clear as she glowered up at Mycroft Holmes.

“Don’t just stand there.” He drawled, “Take her away!” Before Irene could retrieve the words from her burning lungs, Sherlock pinned Mycroft against the wall of the stairwell.

“If one more of your men lays a finger on her, know that the fact my hands are tied behind my back will only make your suffering more creative on my part, Mycroft.”

The hammering of Irene’s heart only made it harder to keep her vision in focus. To keep him in focus as the room spun and spun and spun. Sherlock glared his brother down. But their voices were becoming muffled as if she was moving further away from them. Irene found herself clutching at words, but she might as well have been trying to cup water in her hands until a voice right next to her said,

“Sherlock, what’s going-oh-!”

“Hello, Doctor Watson.” Irene’s voice was barely above a slur. But something that felt oddly like relief tingling through her veins as Sherlock’s best friend swam in and out of focus by her side.

“If you think,” Sherlock’s whisper came more like a growl, “that Moriarty’s survival is as much my doing as Miss Adler’s, your deduction skills have reached their lowest point, brother.”

Irene wasn’t sure if it was the pain radiating from every single bone in her body as each of them screamed with Moran’s engineered exhaustion, but she had no idea what was happening until her vision came into focus. Mrs Watson was coming down the stairs behind Mycroft and Sherlock.

“Watch out boys.” Irene muttered. From what Irene could discern through her fog, they both looked quite puzzled before Mrs Watson pressed a gun to Mycroft’s forehead and asked him ever so politely to release ‘Sherlock and Miss Adler’. Mycroft only scowled and replied,

“Or what, Mrs Watson? You’ll shoot me?”

Mary shrugged, “I’d prefer not to, but everyone here knows I have a slight tendency to shoot the Holmes boys.”

Something clicked in a distant corner of Irene’s mind that cast her wary mind back to a rose she’d left by Sherlock’s hospital bed. But gravity was clawing at her mind and it would pull her exhausted body down with it. _No. No. No. He can’t know._

Irene hauled her mind back to the present. Her body rocked with the effort of it and she tried her best to focus on the glint of the barrel of the gun Mrs Watson had pointed at Mycroft’s head, “Let them go.” She said.

“Thank you, Mrs Watson.” Irene breathed. Partly because she did indeed admire Mrs Watson’s allegiances, but mostly because her vision was tunnelling and speaking was her last life line to the conscious world.

“For God’s sake, Mycroft!” Doctor Watson shouted, “Don’t be an idiot!”

“Do you understand the position you put yourself in, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice was getting further and further away and it almost seemed several hours before Sherlock responded, in a growl as certain as nightfall,

“Right here. Between you and Miss Adler.”

Mycroft chuckled at him, “All this for a dominatrix?”

“No. Not a dominatrix. The Woman.” 

His words might have been thunder for the room was silent. All bar from Irene’s erratic heart as it threw itself against her bones and bounded against her ears. She could feel herself fading, the edges of everything she was, becoming less and less as Mycroft continued,

“Whatever information she is feeding you on Moriarty, little brother. I hope for all our sakes you are not so distracted that you can’t do what will be necessary.”

For a brief moment, Irene Adler’s thoughts hung between two urges so strong they could almost have been instincts. The first was the urge to slap Sherlock’s older brother in the face so hard that the mark of her thin fingers would be on show to the world. The second felt stranger.

The second was the urge to run to Sherlock and tell him everything. Everything Moran had done to her so she hardly had the energy to keep herself standing, let alone defend herself or tell him the truth. Moran even insured she hardly had blood to spare to blush at his defense in her stead.

“Get out.” said Sherlock, “Take your thugs with you. If I so much as hear your voice in my vicinity in the next three days, you’ll be hunting Moriarty alone.”

Mycroft waved his hand lazily at the men, “Release her.”

Irene heard her sigh rather than felt it as the solid suited fellow standing over her ungracefully unleashed her hands from their plastic bonds. Despite her relief, the absence of his hold on her meant she was now standing unsupported. _Not for long._ Waves of numbness punctuated by stabs of pain that endeavoured to split her spinning head in two and Irene was unsure which sensation she would give into first. Whether she would scream or just stop.

“Be careful, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s drawl of pure righteousness broke through her fog, “You do remember what happened the last time you didn’t listen to me regarding Miss Adler. There is a rumor among the intelligence community that Sebastian Moran is in London.” Mycroft continued, “But she couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that.”

And the urge to hit Mycroft Holmes was extinguished as quickly burned through Irene Adler by a wave of numbness that swallowed her, and everything else, into black. The last thing she was aware of was something stopped her from hitting the floor.

\---------------------------------------------------

**_This was a little scene from Chapter 12 I cut because I thought it disrupted the tone I was trying to give the chapter. Anyone whose read this fic or follows me on tumblr knows I adore baby Watson and cannot wait for season 4 to see everyone interact with this little bundle of hope. Unfortunately, this scene didn’t quite fit with Chp 12. It’s set just after Sherlock wakes up and leaves at the beginning of the chapter._ **

Mrs Hudson was bouncing baby Ella Watson gently in her arms around her apartment. The midday sun poured in through the small kitchen window between the buildings next door as they walked passed it. Mrs Hudson was making tea with one hand. While little Ella’s fingers dripped with the drool from her tiny toothless mouth. Smiling quizzically up at her and giggling with the motion of it all.

“Yes. It’s exciting to be awake when you’re that age, isn’t it, dear?” Mrs Hudson mused as she gave up on pouring the tea one handed and continued to walk Ella around her apartment.

There was a thud above them.

Looking up, Mrs Hudson frowned as the banging moved to her right. As her eyes followed the sound to the direction of the hallway, she saw the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes whip past her apartment door.

“Wonder where he’s gallivanting off to. I thought he had a guest. I really must have a chat to that boy about manners.” She said, settling into one of her kitchen chairs with Ella on her lap. Ella made a noise in agreement and a few minutes passed this way. Quiet punctuated only by Ella’s incoherent attempts at chatting. Until the door opened and John entered the apartment.

“Ah,” sighed John with a tired smile, “She’s awake.” John walked over to them, holding out his arms, reaching for his daughter, “There she is,” he whispered excitedly, smiling down at Ella as Mrs Hudson stood up and passed her carefully over to him. Unable not to grin at the pair of them, she clapped her hands together silently beneath her chin.

“Thanks for looking after her over these last few days, Mrs Hudson. You really are a lifesaver.” He let out a sigh, “Sorry to spring her on you. Just we needed quiet in 221b for a bit and Ella was bit reluctant to agree.”

Mrs Hudson waved away his apology, “It’s my pleasure, dear,” she said, but after a moment of watching the shadows crinkle under John’s eyes, she asked, “Is Sherlock okay? You all seem exhausted.” She rested a hand on his cheek briefly before lowering it and frowning, “I just heard him leave- Sherlock, I mean - I thought he had a friend over. That woman who fainted just outside the other day when Mycroft was making all that fuss.” Mrs Hudson saw John’s eyes widen before he blinked at her and responded,

“She’s not uh-” Pausing, John shook his head with his brow furrowed, “Everyone’s fine, Mrs Hudson.” He settled on, “Sherlock just ducked out for a bit.” He finished. Mrs Hudson cocked her head to the side,

“Alright, lovey.” She smiled, “Have Mary or you even eaten anything?”

“No- But it’s-”

“I’ll bring some tea and things up soon, then.” She turned away from him and fetched a tea tray from the cupboard behind her.

“Mrs Hudson please you don’t need to- Sherlock doesn’t want anyon-”

“Oh hush dear. I’m the land lady. If I want bring up some tea, I will.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw John smile at her as he tickled Ella’s chest.

“You always said you weren’t our housekeeper.” He said.

“Well, I’m certainly not yours anymore, dear,” She laughed, putting the kettle on and turning back to face him. John raised an eyebrow at her, but she continued, “Don’t worry about Sherlock, he can have some tea when he gets back.”

 John opened his mouth to respond, but instead he just yawned. Followed quickly by baby Ella doing the same in his arms, “I better get back up there.” He said, “Mind if I leave Ella with you for a little longer?”

“Not at all!” Mrs Hudson stopped bustling around her kitchen and held out her arms to take Ella off of him. John giving Ella’s forehead a quick kiss before passing her over, “It’s alright, dear,” she said, trying to sound reassuring “try not to worry too much about Sherlock.”

“I think we can both agree that’s easier said than done.” He called after her as he headed back upstairs.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**_Chapter 4 featured a conversation between Mary and Irene while they drive back to Baker Street after Molly takes Irene’s blood at St Bart’s. Mary and Irene are in Mary’s car, while Sherlock and John are in the cab in front of them. The following deleted scene is Sherlock and John’s chat that I ended up leaving out in the final draft because I didn’t want it to become sort of a ‘girls talk vs boys talk’ thing and remove the focus from Irene’s unspoken plight._ **

Sherlock was already seated and silent as the grave when John hopped into the cab beside him. Glancing behind him out the cab’s summer dust ridden window, he gave Mary a quick nod before the cabbie pulled away.

They drove for quite a few minutes in horrendous silence. Sherlock stared determinately out of the window. Even his body was turned away from John. Strange how a silence in the back of a stuffy cab in the middle of summer could be so cold. John cleared his throat.

“Sherlock-” he cleared his throat again, “Sherlock?”

“Can I help you, John?” The question dripped with so much disdain, John had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“Actually, I’m fine thanks,” He matched Sherlock’s sarcasm, “Can I help you? Anything new in your life you wanna talk about?”

“ _Help me_?” Sherlock mocked, turning his head to glare at him, “Is that what you call coming to my home and harassing me about my personal life,” His voice was nearly a growl, “for _fifty_ quid.”

John blinked at him, his jaw hanging open. But he closed it, resisting the urge to bite his lip from guilt as Sherlock turned away from him again.

“Do you and Mary bet on Moriarty too?” Sherlock snarled, still not looking at John and glaring out his window, “How long it will take me to find him?”

“No. Of course we don-”  

“Why-?” Sherlock barked, “Because you know the game is rigged?”

“Sherlock-” John started, “Sherlock, I was just as shocked to see her as you were – more actually, considering you never told me she was still alive in the first place!”

“I wonder why,” Sherlock muttered, irritable.

“You are being ridiculous-” John had to fight the urge to raise his voice as the cab jolted to a halt at a red light, “I know in the last few months you’ve turned your asshole setting right up because of everything that’s happened - and I’ve enabled it - But Sherlock,” The cab was moving again. John tried to keep his voice calm, “This is huge- whatever the real reason she’s come back - it’s dangerous.”

“Oh, is it?” Sherlock’s voice was soaked in sarcasm once more as he turned his head to glare at John, “Thank you _so_ much for making me aware.” he almost sounded offended, “I was laboring under the impression that women turning up in my living room insisting on sanctuary, carrying lethal intel and the blood covered weapons of deadly assassins was a new form of social courtship I was not aware of.”

John dragged his hand down his face, “For God’s sake, Sherlock- In the very least, she’s your client. Dial it down a notch. Try and be civil, if not calm.”

The look on Sherlock’s face, John might have hit him, “I am being civil. Completely civil.” Sherlock hissed.

“Look, Sherlock. Whatever happened or didn’t happen between you and Irene Adler is your business.” Sherlock looked like he was going to protest at this, “I didn’t ask you about her because I wanted to win 50 quid!” John snapped before he could, “I asked you because I thought you might want to talk about her, given everything that’s happened since you killed Magnessun.” Sherlock almost seemed to flinch at his name, as if recoiling in disgust.

“Well, you were wrong. Nothing unusual,” Sherlock said. John had nothing to say to that.

“Irene Adler is here because she needs you, however she, or you, tries to dress it up.” John said as rain started pattering against the roof of the cab, “And maybe. Just maybe,” John continued as Sherlock remained still and unresponsive, “you need her.”

Sherlock twitched, “I need to find Sebastian Moran,” was all he managed to say.

A few fine sprinkles of rain trickled down the windows as the cab crawled through central London.

“My daughter is almost 6 months old, Sherlock.” John said after a while **, “** I don’t want to lose her,” he sucked in his breath, “or Mary, or even you, because you won’t tell me what’s really happening.” John saw Sherlock swallow, “Like it or not, whatever happens now, I’m not leaving you to solve this on your own.”

“Wow. You really are doing a wonderful job,” Sherlock muttered. John’s brow furrowed before Sherlock finished, “of convincing me you aren’t an idiot.”

John sighed, “Yeah,” he said, glaring at Sherlock and matching his sarcastic tone, “Probably about as good a job as you’re doing right now,” Sherlock was staring out the window again, “of convincing the world you don’t care.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a story about why Irene Adler is important. How she really is a rock for Sherlock Holmes. I wrote a story about coming to terms with your fears, facing them and loving despite them and how no one can live with only one kind of love in their life. We need friends. We need family. These are the last pieces of that story. Thank you all so so so very much for reading it, truly. 
> 
> Finally, I dedicate these final pieces and the act of finishing TPoR to my Pop. He was an aboriginal artist and he died on Monday this week. Thank you for teaching me to never fear expressing what is important to me through my passions, Pop. Despite my ability to tell a story, I have not yet found words that will say how much I miss you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you wanna chat to me about ma writing or anything, hit me up on tumblr: snogboxez.co.vu


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